TXIE 


CHILDREN'S 


Portion 


Entertaining,  Instructive,  and  Elevating  Stories. 


•iki      ^^%  \iflK 


SELECTED   AND  EDITED  BY 

Robert  W.  Shoppell. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

Louis  Klopsch.  Proprietor, 
BIBLE   HOUSE.  NEW  YORK. 


Copyrijjht  T895, 
By  Louis  KhOPSCH. 


PRLSS  AND  BlNDKRY  OH 

HISTORICAL  PUBLISHING  CO., 

PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 
The  Golden  Age.     Rev.  Alexander  McLeod, 

D.  D 13 

The  Merchant  of  Venice.     Mary  Seymour  .    .  40 

The  Afflicted  Prince.     Agnes  Strickland  .    .    .  51 

"  His  Ivudship."     Barbara  Yechton 79 

Pious  Constance.     Chaucer 97 

The  Doctor's  Revenge.     AL.  O.  E no 

The  Woodcutter's  Child.    Grimm  Brothers  .    .  120 

Show  Your  Colors.     C.  H.  Mead 128 

Her  Danger  Signal 132 

A  Knight's  Dilemma.     Chaucer 141 

"  His  Royal  Highness. "     C.  H.  Mead  ....  149 

Patient  Griselda.     Chaucer 157 

Let  It  Alone.     Mary  C.  Bamford 172 

The  IMan  Who  Lost  His  INIemory.     Savinien 

Lapointe 180 

The  Story  of  a  Wedge.     C.  H.  Mead     ....  198 

Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.  Agnes  Strickland  203 

Cissy's  Amendment 240 

The  Winter's  Tale.     Mary  Seymour 246 

A  Gracious  Deed 258 

"Tom."     C.  H.  Mead ...  262 

Steven  Lawrence,  American.   Barbara  Yechton  268 


S>n^^<^nQo 


THE  CHILDREN'S  PORTION. 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

REV.  ALEXANDER    MAC  LEOD,  D.  D 
I. 

The  King's  Children. 

There  was  once,  in  Christendom,  a  little 
kingdom  where  the  people  were  pious  and 
simple-hearted.  In  their  simplicity  they 
held  for  true  many  things  at  which  people 
of  great  kingdoms  smile.  One  of  these 
things  was  what  is  called  the  ' '  Golden 
Age." 

There  was  not  a  peasant  in  the  villages, 
nor  a  citizen  in  the  cities,  who  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  Golden  Age.  If  they  happened 
to  hear  of  anything  great  that  had  been 
done  in  former  times,  they  would  say, 
"That  was  in  the  Golden  Age."  If  any- 
body spoke  to  them  of  a  good  thing  he  was 
looking  for  in  years  to  come,  they  would 
say,  ' '  Then  shall  be  the  Golden  Age. ' '    And 


14  The  Children's  Portion. 

if  they  should  be  speaking  of  something 
happy  or  good  which  was  going  on  under 
their  eyes,  they  always  said,  "Yes,  the 
Golden  Age  is  there." 

Now,  words  like  these  do  not  come  to 
people  in  a  day.  And  these  words  about 
the  Golden  Age  did  not  come  to  the  people 
of  that  ancient  kingdom  in  a  day.  More 
than  a  hundred  years  before,  there  was 
reigning  over  the  kingdom  a  very  wise  king, 
whose  name  was  Pakronus.  And  to  him 
one  day  came  the  thought,  and  grew  from 
little  to  more  in  his  mind,  that  some  time  or 
other  there  must  have  been,  and  some  time 
or  other  there  would  be  again,  for  his  peo- 
ple and  for  all  people  a  *'  Golden  Age." 

"Other  ages,"  he  said,  "are  silver,  or 
brass,  or  iron;  but  one  is  a  Golden  Age." 
And  I  suppose  he  was  thinking  of  that  Age 
when  he  gave  names  to  his  three  sons,  for 
he  called  them  Yestergold,  Goldenday, 
and  GoLDMORROW.  Sometimes  when  he 
talked  about  them,  he  would  say,  "They 
are  my  three  captains  of  the  Golden  Age. ' ' 
He  had  also  a  little  daughter  whom  he 
greatly  loved.     Her  name  was  Faith. 

These  children  were  very  good.  And 
they  were  clever  as  well  as  good.  But  like 
all  the  children  of  that  old  time,  they  re- 
mained children  longer  than  the  children  of 
now-a-days.     It  was  many  years  before  their 


The  Golden  Age.  15 

school  days  came  to  an  end,  and  when  they 
ended  they  did  not  altogether  cease  to  be 
children.  They  had  simple  thoughts  and 
simple  ways,  just  like  the  people  of  the 
kingdom.  Their  father  used  to  take  them 
up  and  down  through  the  countr}',  to  make 
them  acquainted  with  the  lives  of  the  people. 
' '  You  shall  some  day  be  called  to  high  and 
difficult  tasks  in  the  kingdom,"  he  said  to 
them,  "  and  you  should  prepare  yourselves 
all  you  can."  Almost  every  day  he  set 
their  minds  a-thinking,  how  the  lives  of 
the  people  could  be  made  happier,  and 
hardly  a  day  passed  on  which  he  did  not 
say  to  them,  that  people  would  be  happier 
the  nearer  they  got  to  the  Golden  Age.  In 
this  way  the  children  came  early  to  the 
thought  that,  one  way  or  other,  happiness 
would  come  into  the  world  along  with  the 
Golden  x\ge. 

But  always  there  was  one  thing  they  could 
not  understand:  that  was  the  time  when  the 
Golden  Age  should  be. 

About  the  Age  itself  they  were  entireh* 
at  one.  The}'  could  not  remember  a  year 
in  their  lives  when  they  were  not  at  one  in 
this.  As  far  back  as  the  days  when,  in  the 
long  winter  evenings,  they  sat  listening  to 
the  ballads  and  stories  of  their  old  nurse, 
they  had  been  lovers  and  admirers  of  that 
Age.       "  It    was   the   happy    Age    of    the 


1 6  The  CJiildreii's  Portion. 

world, ' '  the  nurse  used  to  say.  ' '  The  fields 
were  greener,  the  skies  bluer,  the  rainbows 
brighter  than  in  other  Ages.  It  was  the 
Age  when  heaven  was  near,  and  good  angels 
present  in  every  home.  Back  in  that  Age, 
awa}^  on  the  lonely  pastures,  the  shepherds 
watching  theirflocks  by  night  heard  angels' 
songs  in  the  sk^^  And  the  children  in  the 
cities,  as  the}^  were  going  to  sleep,  felt  the 
waving  of  angel  wings  in  the  dark.  It  was 
a  time  of  wonders.  The  ver^-  birds  and 
beasts  could  speak  and  understand  what  was 
said.  And  in  the  poorest  children  in  the 
streets  might  be  found  princes  and  princesses 
in  disguise." 

They  remembered  also  how  often,  in  the 
mornings,  when  they  went  down  to  school, 
their  teacher  chose  lessons  which  seemed 
to  tell  of  a  Golden  Age.  They  recalled  the 
lessons  about  the  city  of  pure  gold  that  was 
one  day  to  come  down  from  heaven  for  men 
to  dwell  in ;  and  other  lessons  that  told  of 
happy  times,  when  nations  should  learn  the 
art  of  war  no  more,  and  there  should  be 
nothing  to  hurt  or  destroy  in  all  the  earth. 

"Yes,  my  dear  children,"  their  mother 
would  say,  in  the  afternoon,  when  the^^  told 
her  of  the  teacher's  lessons  and  the  nurse's 
stories.  *'  Yes,  there  is  indeed  a  happy  age 
for  the  children  of  men,  which  is  all  that 
your  nurse  and  teacher  say.      It  is  a  happy 


The  Golden  Age.  17 

time  and  a  time  of  wonders.  In  that  time 
wars  cease  and  there  is  nothing  to  hurt  or 
destroy.  Princes  and  princesses  in  poor 
clothing  are  met  in  the  streets,  because  in 
tliat  Age  the  poorest  child  who  is  good  is  a 
child  of  the  King  of  Heaven.  And  heaven 
and  good  angels  are  near  because  Christ  is 
near.  It  is  Christ's  presence  that  works  the 
wonders.  When  He  is  living  on  the  earth, 
and  His  life  is  in  the  lives  of  men,  every- 
thing is  changed  for  the  better.  There  is  a 
new  heaven  and  a  new"  earth.  And  the 
Golden  Ao:e  has  come. ' ' 


II. 

Different  Views. 

It  was  a  great  loss  to  these  children  that 
this  holy  and  beautiful  mother  died  when 
they  were  still  very  young.  But  her  good 
teaching  did  not  die.  Her  words  about  the 
Golden  Age  never  passed  out  of  their 
minds.  Whatever  else  they  thought  con- 
eerning  it  in  after  years,  they  always  came 
back  to  this — in  this  they  were  all  agreed — 
that  it  is  the  presence  of  Christ  that  makes 
the  Gold  of  the  Golden  Age. 

But  at  this  point  their  agreement  came  to 
an  end.  They  could  never  agree  respecting 
the  time  of  the  Golden  Ao:e. 


i8  The  C/ii/dreji's  Portion. 

Yestergold  believed  that  it  lay  in  the  past. 
In  his  esteem  the  former  times  were  better 
than  the  present.  People  were  simpler 
then,  and  truer  to  each  other  and  happier. 
There  was  more  honesty  in  trade,  more  love 
in  society,  more  religion  in  life.  Man}'-  an 
afternoon  he  went  alone  into  the  old  abbey, 
where  the  tombs  of  saintly  ladies,  of  hoh' 
men,  and  of  brave  fighters  lay,  and  as  he  wan- 
dered up  and  dow^n  looking  at  their  marble 
images,  the  gates  of  the  Golden  Age  seemed 
to  open  up  before  him.  There  was  one 
figure,  especiall}^  before  which  he  often 
stood.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  Crusader,  his 
sword  by  his  side,  his  hands  folded  across 
his  breast,  and  his  feet  resting  on  a  lion. 
"Ay,"  he  would  say,  "in  that  Age  the 
souls  of  brave  men  really  trod  the  lion  and 
the  dragon  under  foot."  But  when  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  came  streaming 
through  the  great  window  in  the  west,  and 
kindling  up  the  picture  of  Christ  healing 
the  sick,  his  soul  would  leap  up  for  joy,  a 
new  light  would  come  into  his  e3^es,  and 
this  thought  would  rise  within  him  like  a 
song — "The  Golden  Age  itself — the  Age 
into  which  all  other  Ages  open  and  look 
back — is  pictured  there." 

But  on  such  occasions,  as  he  came  out  of 
the  abbey  and  went  along  the  streets,  if  he 
met  the  people  hastening  soiled  and  weary 


The  Goldc7i  Age.  19 

from  their  daily  toils,  the  joy  would  go  out 
of  his  heart.  He  would  begin  to  think  of 
the  poor  lives  they  were  leading.  And  he 
would  cry  within  himself,  ' '  Oh  that  the  lot 
of  these  toiling  crowds  had  fallen  on  that 
happy  Age  !  It  would  have  been  easy  then 
to  be  good.  Goodness  was  in  the  ver}^  air 
blessed  by  His  presence.  The  people  had 
but  to  see  Him  to  be  glad."  And  some- 
times his  sorrow  would  be  for  himself. 
Sometimes,  remembering  his  own  struggles 
to  be  good,  and  the  difficulties  in  his  way, 
and  how^  far  he  was  from  being  as  good  as 
he  ought  to  be,  he  would  say,  "  Would  that 
I  myself  had  been  living  when  Jesus  was  on 
the  earth."  More  or  less  this  wish  was 
always  in  his  heart.  It  had  been  in  his 
heart  from  his  earliest  years.  Indeed,  it  is 
just  a  speech  of  his,  made  when  he  was  a 
little  boy,  which  has  been  turned  into  the 
hymn  we  so  often  sing  : — 

"  I  think  when  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old, 
When  Jesus  was  here  among  men, 
How  He  called  little  children,  as  lambs,  to  His 
fold, 
I  should  like  to  have  been  with  Him  then. 

"  I    wish  that  His  hands  had  been  placed  on  my 
head, 
That  His   arms  had  been  thrown  around  me. 
That  I  might  have  seen  His  kind  looks  when  He 
said, 
'  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  Me.'  " 


20  TJic  Children's  Portion. 

Goldmorrow's  thoughts  were  different. 
They  went  forward  into  the  future.  He 
had  hardly  any  of  Yestergold's  difficulties 
about  being  good.  He  did  not  think  much 
about  his  own  state.  What  took  up  all  his 
thoughts  was  the  state  of  the  world  in 
which  his  brothers  and  he  were  living. 
How  was  that  to  be  made  better  ?  As  he 
went  up  and  down  in  his  father's  kingdom, 
he  beheld  hovels  in  which  poor  people  had 
to  live,  and  drink-shops,  and  gambling- 
houses,  and  prisons.  He  was  always  asking 
himself,  how  are  evils  like  these  to  be  put 
away  ?  Whatever  good  any  Age  of  the  past 
had  had,  these  things  had  i>ever  been  cast 
out.  He  did  not  think  poorly  of  the  Age 
when  Christ  was  on  the  earth.  He  was  as 
pious  as  his  brother.  He  loved  the  Lord  as 
much  as  his  brother.  But  his  love  went 
more  into  the  future  than  into  the  past.  It 
was  the  lyord  who  was  coming,  rather  than 
the  Lord  who  had  come,  in  whom  he  had 
joy.  "  The  Golden  Age  would  come  when 
Christ  returned  to  the  earth,"  he  said.  The 
verses  in  the  Bible  where  this  coming  was 
foretold  shone  like  light  for  Goldmorrow. 
And  often,  as  he  read  them  aloud  to  his 
brothers  and  his  sister,  his  e3'es  would  kindle 
and  he  would  burst  out  with  speeches  like 
this  :  "I  see  that  happy  time  approaching. 
I    hear   its    footsteps.     My    ears   catch    its 


The  Golden  Age,  ai 

songs.  It  is  coming.  It  is  on  the  way. 
My  Lord  will  burst  those  heavens  and  come 
in  clouds  of  glory,  with  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  in  His  train.  And  things 
evil  shall  be  cast  out  of  the  kingdom.  And 
things  that  are  wrong  shall  be  put  right. 
There  shall  be  neither  squalor,  nor  wretched 
povert3%  nor  crime,  nor  intemperance,  nor 
ignorance,  nor  hatred,  nor  war.  All  men 
shall  be  brothers.  Each  shall  be  not  for 
himself  but  for  the  kingdom.  And  Christ 
shall  be  Lord  of  all." 

In  these  discussions  Golden  day  was 
always  the  last  to  speak.  And  always  he 
had  least  to  say.  I  have  been  told  that  he 
was  no  great  speaker.  But  my  impression 
is  that  he  got  so  little  attention 'from  his 
brothers  wiien  he  spoke,  that  he  got  into 
the  way  of  keeping  his  thoughts  to  him- 
self. But  everybody  knew  that  he  did  not 
agree  with  either  of  his  brothers.  His  be- 
lief was  that  the  present  Age,  with  all  its 
faults,  was  the  Golden  Age  for  the  people 
living  in  it.  And  there  is  no  doubt  that 
that  was  the  view  of  his  sivSter  Faith.  For 
when  at  any  time  he  happened  to  let  out 
even  the  tiniest  word  with  that  view  in  it, 
she  would  come  closer  to  him,  lean  up 
against  his  side,  and  give  him  a  hidden 
pressure  of  the  hand. 


22  The  Children's  Portion. 

III. 
Search  for  the  Golden  Age. 

When  these  views  of  the  young  Princes 
came  to  be  known,  the  people  took  sides, 
some  with  one  Prince,  some  with  another. 
The  greatest  number  sided  with  Yestergold, 
a  number  not  so  great  with  Goldmorrow, 
and  a  few,  and  these  for  the  most  part  of 
humble  rank,  with  Goldenday.  In  a  short 
time  nothing  else  was  talked  about,  from 
one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  but 
the  time  of  the  Golden  Age.  And  this, 
became  a  trouble  to  the  King. 

Now  there  happened  to  be  living  at  that 
time  in  the  palace  a  wise  man,  a  high  Coun- 
cillor of  State,  whom  the  King  greatly 
esteemed,  and  whose  counsel  he  had  often 
sought.  To  him  in  his  trouble  the  King 
turned  for  advice. 

**Let  not  this  trouble  thee,  O  King,"  the 
Councillor  said.  ' '  Both  for  the  Princes  and 
the  people  it  is  good  that  thoughts  on  this 
subject  should  come  out  into  talk.  But  let 
the  thoughts  be  put  to  the  test.  I^et  the 
Princes,  with  suitable  companions,  be  sent 
forth  to  search  for  this  Age  of  Gold.  Al- 
though the  Age  itself,  in  its  very  substance, 
is  hid  with  God,  there  is  a  country  in  which 
shadows  of  all  the  Ages  are  to  be  seen.     In 


The  Golden  Age.  23 

that  country,  the  very  clouds  in  the  sky, 
the  air  which  men  breathe,  and  the  hills  and 
woods  and  streams  shape  themselves  into 
images  of  the  life  that  has  been,  or  is  to  be 
among  men.  And  whosoever  reaches  that 
country  and  looks  with  honest,  earnest  eyes, 
shall  see  the  Age  he  looks  for,  just  as  it  was 
or  is  to  be,  and  shall  know  concerning  it 
whether  it  be  his  Age  of  Gold.  At  the  end 
of  a  year,  let  the  travelers  return,  and  tell 
before  your  Majest}-  and  an  assembly  of 
the  people  the  stors^  of  their  search."  To 
this  counsel  the  King  gave  his  assent.  And 
he  directed  his  sons  to  make  the  choice  of 
their  companions  and  prepare  for  their  jour- 
ney. 

Yestergold,  for  his  companions,  chose  a 
painter  and  a  poet.  Goldmorrow  preferred 
two  brothers  of  the  Order  of  Watchers  of 
the  Sky.  But  Goldenday  said,  "  I  shall  be 
glad  if  my  sister  Faith  will  be  companion 
to  me."     And  so  it  was  arranged. 

Just  at  that  time  the  King  was  living  in  a 
palace  among  the  hills.  And  it  was  from 
thence  the  travelers  were  to  leave.  It  was 
like  a  morning  in  Wonderland.  The  great 
valley  on  which  the  palace  looked  down, 
and  along  which  the  Princes  were  to  travel, 
was  that  morning  filled  with  vapor.  And 
the  vapor  lay,  as  far  as  the  e3'e  could  reach, 
without  a  break  on  its  surface,  or  a  ruffled 


24  The  Childre)i^s  Portion. 

edge,  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun,  like  a 
sea  of  liquid  silver.  The  hills  that  sur- 
rounded the  palace  looked  like  so  many 
giants  sitting  on  the  shores  of  a  mighty  sea. 
It  was  into  this  sea  the  travelers  had  to  de- 
scend. One  by  one,  with  their  companions, 
they  bade  the  old  King  farewell.  And  then, 
stepping  forth  from  the  palace  gates  and  de- 
scending toward  the  valley,  they  disappeared 
from  view. 

The  country  to  which  they  were  going 
lay  many  days'  distance  between  the  Purple 
Mountains  and  the  Green  Sea.  The  road 
to  it  lay  through  woods  and  stretches  of 
corn  and  pasture  land.  It  was  Autumn. 
In  every  field  were  reapers  cutting  or  bind- 
ing the  corn.  At  every  turn  of  the  road 
were  wagons  laden  with  sheaves.  Then  the 
scene  changed.  The  land  became  poor. 
The  fields  were  covered  with  crops  that 
were  thin  and  unripe.  The  people  who 
passed  on  the  road  had  a  look  of  want  on 
their  faces.  The  travelers  passed  on. 
Every  eye  was  searching  the  horizon  for  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  mountain  peaks.  In 
every  heart  was  the  joyful  hope  of  finding 
the  Golden  Age.  Can  you  think  what  the 
joy  of  a  young  student  going  for  the  first 
time  to  a  university  is  ?  It  was  a  joy  like 
his.  While  this  joy  was  in  their  hearts,  the 
road    passed   into    a    mighty    forest.     And 


The  Golden  Age.  25 

suddenly  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees  a 
miserable  spectacle  crossed  their  path.  It 
was  a  crowd  of  peasants  of  the  very  poorest 
class.  A  plague  had  fallen  on  their  homes, 
and  they  were  fleeing  from  their  village, 
which  lay  among  the  trees  a  mile  or  two  to 
the  right. 

Yestergold  was  the  first  to  meet  them. 
He  was  filled  with  anguish.  His  sensitive 
nature  could  not  bear  to  see  suffering  in 
others.  He  shrank  from  the  very  sight  of 
misery.  Turning  to  his  companions,  he 
said,  "If  the  Lord  of  Life  had  been  travel- 
ing on  this  road  as  He  was  on  that  other, 
long  ago,  when  the  widow  of  Nain  met  Him 
with  her  dead  son,  He  would  have  destroyed 
the  plague  by  a  word."  "Oh,  holy  and 
beautiful  Age!"  exclaimed  the  poet, 
' '  why  dost  thou  lie  in  thy  soft  swathings 
of  light,  and  power  to  do  mighty  deeds,  so 
far  behind  us  in  the  past  ?  "  "  But  let  us 
use  it  as  a  golden  background,"  said  the 
painter.  "That  is  the  beautiful  Age  on 
which  Art  is  called  to  portray  the  Divine 
form  of  the  Great  Physician  !  ' '  Saying 
these  fine  words,  the  party  rode  swiftl}^ 
past. 

The  terrified  villagers  were  still  streaming 
across  the  road  when  Goldmorrow  came  up. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  pity  which  the 
spectacle    stirred    in     his    breast.       Tears 


26  The  Childrefi's  Poriiojz, 

streamed  from  his  eyes.  The  bareness,  the 
poverty,  the  misery  of  the  present  time 
seemed  to  come  into  view  and  gather  into  a 
point  in  what  he  saw.  ' '  Oh  !  "  he  cried  to 
his  companions,  "  if  Christ  were  only  come  ! 
Onl}^  He  could  deal  with  evils  so  great  as 
these  !  "  Then,  withdrawing  his  thoughts 
into  himself,  and  still  moved  with  his 
humane  pity,  he  breathed  this  prayer  to 
Christ :  "  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly, 
and  lay  thy  healing  hand  on  the  wounds 
and  sorrows  of  the  world. ' '  His  companions 
were  also  touched  with  what  thej^  saw. 
And  in  earnest  and  reverent  words  one  of 
them  exclaimed  :  ' '  Blessed  hope  !  Light  of 
the  pilgrim  !  Star  of  the  weary  !  The  earth 
has  waited  long  thy  absent  light  to  see." 
But,  by  the  time  the  words  were  spoken,  the 
villagers  were  behind  them,  and,  spurring 
their  horses,  the  travelers  hastened  forward 
on  their  way. 


IV. 

A  Plague-stricken  Village. 

The  dust  raised  by  their  horses'  hoofs 
was  still  floating  over  the  highway  when 
Goldenday,  with  his  sister  and  their  attend- 
ants, rode  up  to  the  spot.  Two  or  three 
groups  of  the  fugitives  had  made  a  tempo- 


The  Golden  Age.  27 

ran'  home  for  the  night  under  the  shelter  of 
the  trees  on  the  left.  Others  were  still 
arriving.  The  pale  faces,  the  terrified 
looks  of  the  villagers,  filled  the  Prince  with 
concern.  '' It  is  the  pestilence,"  the}' said, 
in  answer  to  his  inquiries.  * '  The  pesti- 
lence, good  sir,  and  it  is  striking  us  dead  in 
the  ver\^  streets  of  our  village. ' '  The  Prince 
turned  to  his  sister.  She  was  already  dis- 
mounted. A  light  was  in  her  eye  which  at 
once  went  to  his  heart.  The  two  understood 
each  other.  They  knew  that  it  was  Christ  and 
not  merely  a  crowd  of  terrified  peasants  who 
had  met  them.  The}-  were  His  eyes  that 
looked  out  at  them  through  the  tear-filled 
eyes  of  the  peasantr}^  It  was  His  voice 
that  appealed  to  them  in  their  cries  and 
anguish.  He  seemed  to  be  saying  to  them  : 
' '  Inasmuch  as  3'e  do  it  to  one  of  the  least 
of  these,  ye  do  it  unto  Me."  In  a  few 
moments  the  Prince  had  halted  his  part\^ 
and  unpacked  his  stores,  and  was  suppl3-ing 
the  wants  of  the  groups  on  the  left.  Before 
an  hour  was  past  he  had  brought  light  into 
their  faces  by  his  words  of  cheer,  and,  with 
his  sister  and  his  ser^^ants,  was  on  his  way 
to  the  plague-stricken  village. 

Most  pitiable  was  the  scene  which  awaited 
him  there.  People  were  really  d^-ing  in  the 
streets,  as  he  had  been  told.  Some  were 
already  dead.     A  mother  had  died  in  front 


,  28  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

of  her  cottage,  and  her  little  children  sat 
cr>'ing  beside  her  body.  Another,  with  a 
look  of  despair  in  her  e5'es,  sat  rocking  the 
dead  body  of  the  child.  The  men  seemed 
to  have  fled. 

The  Prince's  plans  were  soon  formed. 
He  had  stores  enough  to  last  his  party  and 
himself  for  a  year.  He  would  share  these 
with  the  villagers  as  far  as  they  would  go. 
He  had  tents  also  for  the  journey.  He 
would  use  these  for  a  home  to  his  own  party 
and  for  hospitals  for  the  sick.  Before  the 
sun  had  set,  the  tents  for  his  own  party 
were  erected  on  a  breezy  height  outside  the 
village.  And,  ere  the  sun  had  arisen  the 
next  morning,  the  largest  tent  of  all  had 
been  set  in  a  place  by  itself,  ready  to  receive 
the  sick. 

Goldenday  and  his  sister  never  reached 
the  country  where  the  images  of  all  the 
Ages  are  to  be  found.  A  chance  of  doing 
good  met  them  on  their  journey,  and  they 
said  to  each  other,  * '  It  has  been  sent  to  us 
by  God."  They  turned  aside  that  they 
might  make  it  their  own.  They  spent  the 
year  in  the  deeds  of  mercy  to  which  it 
called  them  among  the  plague-stricken  vil- 
lagers. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  tell  all  that  this 
good  Prince  and  his  sister  achieved  in  that 
year.     The  village  lay  in   a  hollow  among 


The  Goldeit  Age,  29 

dense  woods  and  on  the  edge  of  a  stagnant 
marsh.  The  Prince  had  the  marsh  drained 
and  the  woods  thinned.  Every  house  in 
the  village  was  thoroughly  repaired  and 
cleaned.  The  sick  people  w^ere  taken  up  to 
the  tent-hospital  and  cared  for  until  they 
got  well.  The  men  who  had  fled  returned. 
The  terrified  mothers  ventured  back.  The 
sickness  began  to  slacken.  In  a  few  months 
it  disappeared.  Then  the  Prince  caused 
wells  to  be  dug  to  supply  water  for  drink- 
ing. Then  he  built  airy  schools  for  the 
children.  Last  of  all  he  repaired  the 
church,  which  had  fallen  into  ruin,  and 
trained  a  choir  of  boys  to  sing  thanks  to 
God.  But  when  all  these  things  had  been 
accomplished,  the  year  during  which  he  was 
to  have  searched  for  the  Golden  Age  was 
within  a  few  weeks  of  its  close.  And,  what 
was  w^orse,  it  was  too  plain  to  his  sister  that 
the  Prince's  health  had  suffered  by  his  toils. 
Night  and  day  he  had  labored  in  his  service 
of  love.  Night  and  day  he  had  carried  the 
burden  of  the  sickness  and  infirmities  of  the 
village  in  his  heart.  It  had  proved  a  burden 
greater  than  he  could  bear.  He  had  toiled 
on  till  he  saw  health  restored  to  every  home. 
He  toiled  until  he  saw  the  village  itself  pro- 
tected from  a  second  visitation  of  the  plague. 
But  his  own  strength  w^as  meanwhile  ebb- 
ing away.     The  grateful  villagers  observed 


30  TJic  CJiihircn's  Portion. 

with  grief  how  heavily  their  deliverer  had 
to  lean  on  his  .sister's  arm  in  walking.  And 
tears,  which  they  strove  in  vain  to  conceal, 
would  gather  in  their  eyes  as  they  watched 
the  voice  that  had  so  often  cheered  them 
sinking  into  a  whisper,  and  the  pale  face 
becoming  paler  every  day. 


V. 

Return  of  the  Searchers. 

The  year  granted  to  the  Princes  by  the 
King  had  now  come  to  a  close.  And  he 
and  his  nobles  and  the  chief  men  of  his 
people  assembled  on  the  appointed  day  to 
welcome  the  Princes  on  their  return  and  to 
hear  their  reports  concerning  the  time  of  the 
Golden  Age. 

The  first  to  arrive  was  Prince  Yestergold. 
He  was  accompanied  to  the  platform  on 
which  the  throne  was  set  by  the  painter  and 
poet,  who  had  been  his  companions  during 
the  3^ear.  Having  embraced  his  father,  he 
stepped  to  the  front  and  said  :  — 

"  Most  high  King  and  father  beloved,  and 
you,  the  honorable  nobles  and  people  of  his 
realm,  on  some  future  occasion  my  two  com- 
panions will,  the  one  recite  the  songs  in 
which  the  Age  which  we  went  to  search  for 


The  Golde7i  Age.  31 

is  celebrated,  and  the  other  exhibit  the  pic- 
tures in  which  its  life  is  portrayed.  On  this 
occasion  it  belongs  to  me  to  tell  the  story 
of  our  vSearch,  and  of  what  we  found  and  of 
what  we  failed  to  find.  We  went  forth  to 
discover  the  time  of  the  Golden  Age.  We 
went  in  the  belief  that  it  was  the  time  when 
our  Lord  was  on  the  earth.  How  often 
have  I  exclaimed  in  your  hearing,  '  Oh  that 
I  had  been  born  in  that  age  !  How  much 
easier  to  have  been  a  Christian  then  ! '  I 
have  this  day,  with  humbleness  of  heart,  to 
declare  that  I  have  found  myself  entirely  in 
the  wrong.  I  have  been  in  the  country 
where  images  of  the  Ages  are  stored.  I 
have  seen  the  very  copy  of  the  Age  of  our 
Lord.  I  was  in  it  as  if  I  had  been  born  in 
it.  I  saw  the  scenes  which  those  who  then 
lived  saw.  I  saw  the  crowds  who  moved  in 
those  scenes.  I  beheld  the  very  person  of 
the  Divine  Lord.  And  oh  !  my  father,  and 
oh  !  neighbors  and  friends,  shall  I  shrink 
from  saying  to  you,  '  Be  thankful  it  is  in 
this  Age  and  not  in  that  you  have  been 
born,  and  that  you  know^  the  Lord  as  this 
Age  knows  Him,  and  not  as  He  was  seen 
and  known  in  His  own.' 

' '  We  arrived  at  Bethan)^  on  the  da}^  when 
Lazarus  was  raised.  I  mingled  with  the 
crowd  around  the  grave.  I  saw  the  sisters. 
I  was  amazed  to  find  that  nothing^  looked  to 


32  The  Children- s  Portimt, 

me  as  I  had  expected  it  to  do.  Ev^en  the 
Ivord  had  not  the  appearance  of  One  who 
could  raise  the  dead.  And  when  the  dead 
man  came  forth,  I  could  not  but  mark  that 
some  who  had  vSeen  the  mighty  miracle 
turned  away  from  the  spot,  jeering  and 
scoffing  at  the  lyord,  its  worker. 

"  When  I  next  saw  the  Lord  He  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  scoffers  who  had  turned 
awa}^  from  the  grave  of  lyazarus.  He  was 
being  led  along  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  to 
Calvary.  The  streets  on  both  sides  were 
crowded  with  stalls,  and  with  people  buying 
and  selling  as  at  a  fair.  Nobody  except  a 
few  women  seemed  to  care  that  so  great  a 
sufferer  was  passing  by.  He  was  bending 
under  the  weight  of  the  Cross.  His  face 
was  pale  and  all  streaked  with  blood.  I  said 
to  myself :  '  Can  this  be  He  who  is  more 
beautiful  than  ten  thousand  ?  '  Mj^  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Sickness  came  over  my 
heart.  I  was  like  one  about  to  die.  I  hur- 
ried away  from  the  pitiless  crowd,  from  the 
terrible  spectacle,  from  the  city  accursed. 
And  straightway  I  turned  my  face  toward 
my  home.  And  as  I  came  within  sight  of 
my  father's  kingdom,  I  gave  thanks  to  God 
that  my  lot  had  been  cast  in  this  favored 
Age,  and  that  the  horrors  through  which 
the  Lord  had  to  pass  are  behind  us  ;  and 
that    we  see  Him  now  in  the  story  of  the 


The  Golden  Age.  33 

Gospels,  as  the  Son  of  God,  clothed  with 
the  glory  of  God,  seated  on  the  throne  of 
heaven  and  making  all  things  work  together 
for  good." 

As  the  Prince  was  bringing  his  speech  to 
a  close,  a  distant  rolling  of  drums  announced 
that  one  of  his  brothers  had  arrived  at  the 
gates  of  the  city.  It  was  Goldmorrow. 
And  in  a  little  while  he  entered  the  hall, 
embraced  his  father,  and  was  telling  the 
story  of  his  travel. 

'*  My  companions  and  I,"  he  said,  '*  have 
been  where  the  Golden  i\ge  of  my  dreams 
is  displayed.  We  have  been  in  that  far 
future  where  there  is  to  be  neither  igno- 
rance nor  poverty,  neither  sickness  nor  pain, 
and  where  cruelty  and  oppression  and  war 
are  to  be  no  more.  It  is  greater  than  m}^ 
dreams.  It  is  greater  than  I  have  words  to 
tell.  It  is  greater  than  I  had  eyes  to  see. 
We  were  not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  it. 
We  felt  ourselves  to  be  strangers  in  a 
strange  land.  The  people  we  met  looked 
upon  us  as  we  look  upon  barbarians.  Our 
hearts  sickened.  We  said  to  each  other  : 
'  It  is  too  high,  we  cannot  reach  up  to  it.' 
The  very  blessings  we  had  come  to  see  did 
not  look  to  us  like  the  blessings  of  which 
we  had  dreamed. 

**  But  our  greatest  trial  was  still  to  come. 
The  Lord  had  come  back  to  the   earth  and 


34  T^^i<^  Children's  Portio7i. 

was  living  among  the  people  of  that  Age. 
We  made  our  way  to  the  palace  in  which 
He  lived.  It  was  like  no  palace  w^e  had 
ever  seen.  It  was  like  great  clouds  piled 
up  among  the  hills.  We  were  present  when 
the  doors  were  thrown  open.  We  beheld 
Him  coming  forth.  But  the  vision  of  that 
glory  smote  our  eyes  like  fire.  We  were 
not  able  to  gaze  upon  it.  Our  hearts  failed 
within  us.  This  w^as  not  the  Christ  we  had 
known.  We  shrank  back  from  the  light  of 
that  awful  presence.  We  fell  on  the  ground 
before  Him.  '  God  be  merciful  to  us  sin- 
ners,' we  cried,  '  we  are  not  worthy  to  look 
upon  thy  face. '  And  when  we  could  open 
our  eyes  again  the  vision  had  passed. 

"Then,  O  father!  then,  O  friends  be- 
loved, I  knew  that  I  had  sinned.  In  that 
moment  of  my  humiliation  and  shame  I 
recalled  a  sight  which  I  had  seen  in  the 
first  days  of  my  journey.  I  remembered 
some  peasants  fleeing  from  a  plague-stricken 
village,  whom  we  had  passed.  I  said  to 
myself,  I  say  this  day  to  3^ou,  we  were  that 
day  at  the  gates  of  the  real  Golden  Age  and 
we  did  not  know  it.  We  might  that  day 
have  turned  aside  to  the  help  of  these  peas- 
ants, but  we  missed  the  golden  chance  sent 
to  us  by  God." 


The  Golden  Age.  35 

VI. 
The  Finder  of  the  Age. 

When  Goldmorrow  had  finished,  a  strain 
of  the  most  heavenly  music  was  heard.  It 
sounded  as  if  it  were  coming  toward  the 
assembl}^  hall  from  the  gates  of  the  city. 
It  was  like  the  chanting  of  a  choir  of  angels, 
and  the  sounds  rose  and  fell  as  they  came 
near,  as  if  they  were  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  the  evening  wind.  In  a  little 
while  the  singing  was  at  the  doorway  of  the 
hall,  and  everj^  eye  was  turned  in  that  direc- 
tion. A  procession  of  white- robed  children 
entered  first.  Behind  them  came  a  coffin, 
carried  on  men's  .shoulders,  and  covered 
with  wreaths  of  flowers.  Then,  holding 
the  pall  of  the  coffin,  came  in  the  Princess 
Faith,  behind  her  the  attendants  who  had 
accompanied  her  brother  and  herself,  and 
last  of  all  a  long  line  of  bare-headed  peas- 
ants walking  two  and  two.  It  was  the 
coffin  of  the  Prince  Goldenday.  His 
strength  had  never  come  back  to  him.  He 
had  laid  down  his  life  for  the  poor  villagers. 
Having  fulfilled  his  task  in  their  desolate 
home,  the  brave  3^oung  helper  sickened  and 
died. 

When  this  was  known,  the  old  King 
lifted  up  his  voice  and  vv'ept,  and  the  Princes, 


36  The  Childreti^s  Portion. 

and  the  nobles,  and  all  the  people  present 
joined  in  his  sorrow.  Then  it  seemed  to  be 
found  out,  that  the  dead  Prince  had  been 
of  the  three  brothers  the  most  beloved. 
Then,  when  the  weeping  had  continued  for 
a  long  time,  the  Princess  Faith  stepped  for- 
ward, and  in  few  words  told  the  story  of  the 
3'ear.  Then  silence,  only  broken  by  bursts 
of  sorrow,  fell  upon  all.  And  then  the 
Councillor  rose  up  from  his  seat  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  King,  and  said  : 

"We  have  heard,  O  King,  the  words  of 
the  Princes  who  searched  the  Past  and  the 
Future  for  the  Age  of  Gold.  The  lips  that 
should  have  spoken  for  the  Age  we  are  liv- 
ing in  are  forever  closed  ;  but  in  the  beauti- 
ful statement  of  our  Princess  we  have  heard 
the  story  they  had  to  tell. 

' '  Can  there  be  even  one  in  this  great 
assem'bly,  who  has  listened  to  the  story  of 
the  Princess,  and  does  not  know  that  the 
Age  of  Gold  is  found,  and  that  it  was  found 
by  the  Prince  whose  dead  body  is  here  ? 

' '  O  King,  and  ye  Princes  and  peers  and 
people,  it  was  the  daily  teaching  of  the 
Sainted  Lady,  our  Queen,  that  the  Golden 
Age  is  the  time  w^ien  Christ  is  present  in 
our  life.  In  every  form  in  which  Christ's 
prCvSence  can  be  felt,  it  was  felt  in  the  village 
for  whose  helping  the  dear  Prince  laid  down 
his  life. 


The  Golden  Age.  2)7 

"A  time  of  great  misery  had  come  to 
that  village.  The  harvest,  year  after  year, 
had  failed.  Poverty  fell  upon  the  people. 
Then,  last  and  worst  of  all,  came  the  pesti- 
lence. Through  the  story  told  by  the  be- 
loved Princess  we  can  see  that  faith  in  God 
began  to  fail.  The  people  cried  out  in  their 
agony  :  '  Has  God  forgotten  ? '  And  some, 
•  Is  there  a  God  at  all  ?  ' 

"It  was  in  the  thick  darkness  of  that 
time  the  Prince  visited  them.  He  met  them 
fleeing  from  their  home.  He  gave  up  his 
own  plans  that  he  might  help  them.  His 
coming  into  the  village,  into  the  very  thick 
of  its  misery,  was  like  the  morning  dawn. 
He  was  summer  heat  and  summer  cheer  to 
the  people.  The  clouds  of  anxiety  and  of 
terror  began  to  lift.  The  shadow  of  death 
was  changed  for  them  into  the  morning. 
He  made  himself  one  with  them.  He  went 
from  house  to  house  with  cheer  and  help. 
The  burden  seemed  less  heavy,  the  future 
less  dark,  that  this  helper  was  by  their  side. 
Best  of  all,  faith  came  back  to  them.  It  was 
as  if  the  Lord  had  come  back.  In  a  real 
sense  He  had  come  back.  He  was  present 
in  His  servant  the  Prince.  The  people  be- 
held the  form  of  the  Son  of  God  going 
about  their  streets  doing  good.  They  saw 
the  old  miracles.  The  blind  saw,  the  deaf 
heard  God,  as  in  the  days   when  Jesus  was 


^S  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

in  the  flesh.  Even  death  was  conquered 
before  their  eyes.  A  real  gleam  of  heaven  is 
falling  this  evening  on  the  once- darkened 
village.  The  evil  things  that  infested  its 
life  have  been  cast  out  and  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  have  come  to  it.  It  is  the 
Golden  Age  come  down  to  them  from  God. 

' '  In  his  great  task  the  dear  Prince  died. 
Our  hearts  are  heavy  for  that  we  shall  see 
his  face  no  more.  But  count  it  not  strange 
that  he  died,  or  that  this  trial  should  have 
descended  on  our  King  and  us.  It  is  the 
rule  in  the  kingdom  of  the  L^ord.  Whoever 
will  bring  the  Golden  Age  where  sin  is, 
must  himself  lay  down  his  life.  For  those 
peasants,  as  Christ  for  all  mankind,  the 
Prince  laid  down  his  life." 

The  people  listened  till  the  Councillor 
reached  these  words,  then,  as  by  one  im- 
pulse, they  rose  and  burst  into  a  grand 
doxology.  Then  a  company  of  torch-bear- 
ers entered.  Then,  the  children  took  up 
their  place  at  the  head  of  the  coffin  and  be- 
gan again  to  sing.  The  bearers  lifted  the 
coffin.  The  King  and  Faith  and  the  two 
Princes  followed  ;  after  them  the  peasants 
from  the  village,  then  the  chief  nobles  and 
the  people,  and  in  this  order  the  coffin  was 
carried  to  the  place  of  the  dead. 

In  the  course  of  years  the  wise  Pakronus 
died,    and   Yestergold   became    King.      He 


The  Golden  Age.  39 

made  his  brother  Prime  Minister.  And 
the  two  brothers  became  really  what  their 
father  called  them  when  boys — "Captains 
of  the  Golden  Age."  In  everything  that 
was  for  the  good  of  the  people,  they  took 
the  lead.  They  were  Captains  in  ever>^  bat- 
tle with  sin  and  misery.  What  Goldenday 
did  for  the  plague- stricken  village,  they 
strove  to  do  for  the  whole  kingdom.  Their 
Sister  Faith  gave  herself  to  the  building 
and  care  of  schools  and  hospitals.  And  the 
time  in  which  those  three  lived  is  described 
in  all  the  histories  of  that  kingdom  as  a 
Golden  Age. 

It  is  told  by  travelers  who  have  visited 
the  Royal  cit}-,  that  a  statue  of  the  Prince 
Goldenday  stands  above  the  old  gateway  of 
the  Abbey,  and  that  there  are  written  below 
it  the  words  : 

"To-day  if  ye  will  hear  His  voice." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 
As  Told  by  Mary  Seymour. 

In  the  beautiful  Italian  city  of  Venice 
there  dwelt  in  former  times  a  Jew,  by  name 
Shylock,  who  had  grown  rich  by  lending 
money  at  high  interest  to  Christian  mer- 
chants. No  one  liked  Shylock,  he  was  so 
hard  and  so  cruel  in  his  dealings  ;  but  per- 
haps none  felt  such  an  abhorrence  of  his 
character  as  a  young  man  of  Venice  named 
Antonio. 

This  hatred  was  amply  returned  by  the 
Jew  ;  for  Antonio  was  so  kind  to  people  in 
distress  that  he  would  lend  them  money 
without  taking  interest.  Besides,  he  used 
to  reproach  Shylock  for  his  hard  dealings, 
when  they  chanced  to  meet.  Apparently 
the  Jew  bore  such  reproaches  with  wonder- 
ful patience  ;  but  could  you  have  looked 
into  his  heart,  3^ou  would  have  seen  it  filled 
with  longing  for  revenge. 

It  is  not  strange  to  find  that  Antonio  was 
greatly  loved  b}^  his  fellow-countrymen  ;  but 
dearest  of  all  his  friends  was  Bassanio,  a 
young  man  of  high  rank,  though  possessed 
of  but  small  fortune. 

One  day  Bassanio  came  to  tell  Antonio 
that  he  was  about  to  marry  a  wealthy  lady, 
40 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  41 

but  to  meet  the  expense  of  wedding  such  an 
heiress,  he  needed  the  loan  of  three  thousand 
ducats. 

Just  at  that  time  Antonio  had  not  the 
money  to  lend  his  friend,  but  he  was  ex- 
pecting home  some  ships  laden  with  mer- 
chandise ;  and  he  offered  to  borrow  the 
required  sum  of  Shylock  upon  the  security 
of  these  vessels. 

Together  they  repaired  to  the  Jewish 
money-lender  ;  and  Antonio  asked  for  three 
thousand  ducats,  to  be  repaid  from  the 
merchandise  contained  in  his  ships.  Shy- 
lock  remembered  now  all  that  Antonio  had 
done  to  offend  him.  For  a  few  moments  he 
remained  silent ;  then  he  said  : 

"  Signor,  you  have  called  me  a  dog,  and 
an  unbeliever.  Is  it  for  these  courtesies  I 
am  to  lend  3-ou  monej^  ?  ' ' 

"  Lend  it  not  as  a  friend,"  said  Antonio  ; 
' '  rather  lend  it  to  me  as  an  enemy,  so  that 
vou  may  the  better  exact  the  penalty  if  I 
fail." 

Then  Sh34ock  thought  he  would  pretend 
to  feel  more  kindh\ 

"  I  would  be  friends  with  you,"  he  said. 
"I  will  forget  j^our  treatment  of  me,  and 
supply  your  wants  without  taking  interest 
for  my  money." 

Antonio  was,  of  course,  verj^  much  sur- 
prised at  such  words.     But  Shjdock  repeated 


42  The  Chi7drc?i's  Portion. 

them  ;  only  requiring  that  they  should  go 
to  some  lawyer,  before  whom — as  a  jest — 
Antonio  should  swear,  that  if  by  a  certain 
day  he  did  not  repa}^  the  money,  he  would 
forfeit  a  pound  of  flesh,  cut  from  any  part 
of  his  body  which  the  Jew  might  choose. 

"  I  will  sign  to  this  bond,"  said  Antonio; 
"  and  wall  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  a 
Jew." 

But  Bassanio  now  interfered,  declaring 
that  never  should  Antonio  put  his  name  to 
such  a  bond  for  his  sake.  Yet  the  young 
merchant  insisted  ;  for  he  said  he  was  quite 
sure  of  his  ships  returning  long  before  the 
day  of  payment. 

Meanwhile  Shylock  was  listening  eagerly; 
and  feigning  surprise,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Oh, 
what  suspicious  people  are  these  Christians  ! 
It  is  because  of  their  own  hard  dealings  that 
they  doubt  the  truth  of  others. — Look  here, 
my  lord  Bassanio.  Suppose  Antonio  fail 
in  his  bond,  what  profit  would  it  be  to  me 
to  exact  the  penalty  ?  A  pound  of  man's 
flesh  is  not  of  the  value  of  a  pound  of  beef  or 
mutton  !  I  offer  friendship,  that  I  may  buy 
hisfavor.  If  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not,  adieu." 

But  still  Bassanio  mistrusted  the  Jew. 
However,  he  could  not  persuade  his  friend 
against  the  agreement,  and  Antonio  signed 
the  bond,  thinking  it  was  only  a  jest,  as 
Shylock  said. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice. 


43 


The  fair  and  beautiful  lady  whom  Bas- 
sanio  hoped  to  marry  lived  near  Venice  ; 
and  when  her  lover  confessed  that, — though 
of  high  birth, — he  had  no  fortune  to  lay  at 
her  feet,  Portia  prettil}^  said  that  she  w^i shed 
herself  a  thousand  times  more  fair,  and  ten 
thousand  times  more  rich,  so  that  she  might 


"  But  still  Bassanio  miitrusted  the  Jew.' ' 

be  less  unworthy  of  him.  Then,  declaring 
that  she  gave  herself  to  be  in  all  things 
directed  and  governed  by  him,  she  presented 
Bassanio  with  a  ring. 

Overpowered  with  jo}^  at  her  gracious 
answer  to  his  suit,  the  3^oung  lord  took  the 
gift,  vowing  that  he  would  never  part 
with  it. 

Gratiano  was  in  attendance  upon  his  mas- 


44  -^^^(^  Childr ell's  Poj^tioii. 

ter  during  this  interview  ;  and  after  wishing 
Bassanio  and  his  lovel}^  lady  joy,  he  begged 
leave  to  be  married  also  ;  saying  that  Nerissa, 
the  maid  of  Portia,  had  promised  to  be  his 
wife,  should  her  mistress  wed  Bassanio. 

At  this  moment  a  messenger  entered, 
bringing  tidings  from  Antonio  ;  which  Bas- 
sanio reading,  turned  so  pale  that  his  lady 
asked  him  what  was  amiss. 

"Oh,  sweet  Portia,  here  are  a  few  of  the 
most  unpleasant  words  that  ever  blotted 
paper, ' '  he  said.  ' '  When  I  spoke  of  my  love, 
I  freely  told  you  I  had  no  wealth,  save  the 
pure  blood  that  runs  in  my  veins  ;  but  I 
should  have  told  you  that  I  had  less  than 
nothing,  being  in  debt." 

And  then  Bassanio  gave  the  history  of 
Antonio's  agreement  with  Shy  lock,  the  Jew. 
He  next  read  the  letter  which  had  been 
brought :  ' '  Sweet  Bassanio — My  ships  are 
lost :  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeited ;  and 
since  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible  I  should 
live,  I  could  wish  to  see  you  at  my  death. 
Notwithstanding,  use  your  pleasure  :  if 
your  love  for  me  do  not  persuade  you  to 
come,  let  not  my  letter." 

Then  Portia  said  such  a  friend  should  not 
lose  so  much  as  a  hair  of  his  head  by  the 
fault  of  Bassanio,  and  that  gold  must  be 
found  to  pay  the  money  ;  and  in  order  to 
make  all  her  possessions  his,  she  would  even 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  45 

marry  her  lover  that  day,  so  that  he  might 
start  at  once  to  the  help  of  Antonio. 

So  in  all  haste  the  young  couple  were 
wedded,  and  also  their  attendants,  Gratiano 
and  Nerissa.  Bassanio  immediately  set  out 
for  Venice,  where  he  found  his  friend  in 
prison. 

The  time  of  payment  was  past,  and  the 
Jew  would  not  accept  the  monej'  offered 
him  :  nothing  would  do  now,  he  said,  but 
the  pound  of  flesh !  So  a  day  was  ap- 
pointed for  the  case  to  be  tried  before  the 
Duke  of  Venice  ;  and  meanwhile  the  two 
friends  must  wait  in  anxiety  and  fear. 

Portia  had  spoken  cheeringly  to  her  hus- 
band when  he  left  her,  but  her  own  heart 
began  to  sink  when  she  was  alone  ;  and  so 
strong  was  her  desire  to  save  one  who  had 
been  so  true  a  friend  to  her  Bassanio,  that 
she  determined  to  go  to  Venice  and  speak  in 
defence  of  Antonio. 

There  was  a  gentleman  dwelling  in  the 
city  named  Bellario,  a  counsellor,  who  was 
related  to  Portia  ;  and  to  him  she  w^rote 
telling  the  case,  and  begging  that  he  would 
send  her  the  dress  which  she  must  wear 
when  she  appeared  to  defend  the  prisoner 
at  his  trial.  The  messenger  returned,  bring- 
ing her  the  robes  of  the  counsoller,  and  also 
much  advice  as  to  how  she  should  act ;  and, 
in   company    of  her   maid   Nerissa,    Portia 


46  The  Children's  Portion, 

started  upon  her  errand,  arriving  at  Venice 
on  the  day  of  the  trial. 

The  duke  and  the  senators  were  alread}^ 
in  court,  when  a  note  was  handed  from  Bel- 
lario  sajdng  that,  by  iUness,  he  was  pre- 
vented pleading  for  Antonio  ;  but  he  begged 
that  the  young  and  learned  Doctor  Balthasar 
(for  so  he  called  Portia)  might  be  allowed 
to  take  his  place. 

The  duke  marveled  at  the  extremely 
youthful  appearance  of  this  stranger,  but 
granted  Bellario's  request ;  and  Portia,  dis- 
guised in  flowing  robes  and  large  wig, 
gazed  round  the  court,  where  she  saw  Bas- 
sanio  standing  beside  his  friend. 

The  importance  of  her  work  gave  Portia 
courage  ;  and  she  began  her  address  to  Shy- 
lock,  the  Jew,  telling  him  of  mercy  : 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blest ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown." 

But  Shylock's  only  answer  was,  that  he 
would  insist  upon  the  penalt}'  :  upon  which 
Portia  asked  if  Antonio  could  not  pay  the 
sum.  Bassanio  then  publicly  offered  the 
payment  of  the  three  thousand  ducats  ;  the 
hard  Jew  still  refusing  it,  and  declaring  that 


The  Merchant  of  Venice.  47 

he  would  take  nothing  but  the  promised 
pound  of  flesh. 

Bassanio  was  now  terribly  grieved,  and 
asked  the  learned  young  counsellor  to 
'  *  wrest  the  law  a  little. ' ' 

"It  must  not  be — there  is  no  power 
in  Venice  can  alter  a  decree  established,'' 
said  Portia.  Shylock,  hearing  her  say  this, 
believed  she  would  now  favor  him,  and  ex- 
claimed :  "  iV  Daniel  come  to  judgment  !  O 
wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honor  thee  !  " 

He  never  guessed  what  was  coming,  when 
the  young  counsellor  gravely  asked  to  look 
at  the  bond.  She  read  it,  and  declared  that 
the  Jew  was  lawfully  entitled  to  the  pound 
of  flesh,  but  once  more  she  begged  him  to 
take  the  offered  monej^  and  be  merciful. 

It  was  in  vain  to  talk  to  Shylock  of 
merc3^  He  began  to  sharpen  a  knife  ;  and 
then  Portia  asked  Antonio  if  he  had  any- 
thing to  say.  He  replied  that  he  could  say 
but  little  ;  and  prepared  to  take  leave  of  his 
well-beloved  Bassanio,  bidding  him  tell  his 
wife  how  he  had  died  for  friendship. 

In  his  grief,  Bassanio  cried  out  that, 
dearly  as  he  loved  his  wife,  even  she  could 
not  be  more  precious  to  him  than  Antonio's 
life  ;  and  that  he  v/ould  lose  her  and  all  he 
had,  could  it  avail  to  satisfy  the  Jew. 

* '  Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks 
for  that,  if  she  were  by  to  hear  you  make 


48 


The  Chil droits  Portion. 


that  offer,"  said  Portia;  not  at  all  angry, 
however,  with  her  husband  for  loving  such 
a  noble  friend  well  enough  to  say  this. 

Then  Bassanio's  servant  exclaimed  that 
he  had  a  wife  whom  he  loved,  but  he  wished 
she  were  in  heaven,  if,  b}^  being  there,  she 
could  soften  the  heart  of  Shy  lock. 


"  It  was  in  7-ain  to  talk  to  Shylock  of  niercyy 

At  this,  Nerissa — who,  in  her  clerk's 
dress,  was  by  Portia's  side — said,  "It  is 
well  you  wish  this  ]:)ehind  her  back." 

But  Shylock  was  impatient  to  be  revenged 
on  his  victim,  and  cried  out  that  time  was 
being  lost.  So  Portia  asked  if  the  scales 
were  in  readiness ;  and  if  some  surgeon 
were  near,  lest  Antonio  should  bleed  to 
death. 


The  Merchaiit  of  Venice. 


49 


"It  is  not  so  named  in  the  bond,"  said 
Shy  lock. 

' '  It  were  good  you  did  so  much  for  char- 
ity," returned  Portia. 

But  charity  and  mercy  were  nothing  to 
the  Jew,  who  sharpened  his  knife,  and 
called    upon     Antonio    to    prepare.        But 


'■'But  Portia  bade  hint  tarry;   there  7vas  something  more  to 
hear.'' 


Portia  bade  him  tarry  ;  there  was  some- 
thing more  to  hear.  Though  the  law, 
indeed,  gave  him  a  pound  of  flesh,  it  did 
not  give  him  one  single  drop  of  blood  ;  and 
if,  in  cutting  off  the  flesh,  he  shed  one  drop 
of  Antonio \s  blood,  his  possessions  were 
confiscated  by  the  law  to  the  State  of 
Venice  ! 


50  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

A  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the 
court  at  the  wise  thought  of  the  young 
counsellor  ;  for  it  was  clearly  impossible  for 
the  flesh  to  be  cut  without  the  shedding  of 
blood,  and  therefore  Antonio  was  safe. 

Shylock  then  said  he  would  take  the 
money  Bassanio  had  offered  ;  and  Bassanio 
cried  out  gladly,  "Here  it  is!"  at  which 
Portia  stopped  him,  saying  that  the  Jew 
should  have  nothing  but  the  penalty  named 
in  the  bond. 

"  Give  me  my  money  and  I  will  go  !" 
cried  Shylock  once  more  ;  and  once  more 
Bassanio  would  have  given  it,  had  not 
Portia  again  interfered.  "Tarry,  Jew," 
she  said  ;  ' '  the  law  hath  yet  another  hold 
on  you."  Then  she  stated  that,  for  con- 
spiring against  the  life  of  a  citizen  of 
A^enice,  the  law  compelled  him  to  forfeit  all 
his  wealth,  and  his  own  life  was  at  the 
mercy  of  the  duke. 

The  duke  said  he  would  grant  him  his 
life  before  he  asked  it  ;  one-half  of  his 
riches  only  should  go  to  the  State,  the  other 
half  should  be  Antonio's. 

More  merciful  of  heart  than  his  enemy 
could  expect,  Antonio  declared  that  he  did 
not  desire  the  Jew's  property,  if  he  would 
make  it  over  at  his  death  to  his  own 
daughter,  whom  he  had  discarded  for 
marrying  a  Christian,  to  which  Shylock 
reluctantly  agreed. 


THE  AFFLICTED  PRINCE. 

A  Tal^  of  thk  Anciknt  Britons. 

I. 

It  is  said  by  some  ancient  historians,  and 
by  those  who  have  bestowed  much  pains  in 
examining  and  comparing  old  conditions, 
that  several  kings  reigned  over  Britain 
before  Julius  Caesar  landed  in  the  country. 
Lud  Hurdebras  is  supposed  to  have  been 
the  eighth  king  from  Brute,  whom  the 
Bards,  and  after  them,  the  monkish  his- 
torians, report  to  have  been  the  first  monarch 
of  Britain.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story 
of  Prince  Bladud,  the  son  of  this  Lud  Hur- 
debras, which,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  is 
founded  on  fact. 

Bladud  was  the  only  child  of  the  king  and 
queen,  and  he  was  not  only  tenderly  be- 
loved b}^  his  parents,  but  was  also  considered 
as  a  child  of  great  beauty  and  promise  by 
the  chiefs  and  the  people.  It,  however, 
unfortunately  happened  that  he  was  attacked 
with  that  loathsome  disease,  so  frequently 
mentioned  in  Scripture  by  the  name  of 
leprosy .  The  dirty  habits  and  gross  feeding 
of  the  early  natives  of  Britain,  as  well  as  of 
all  other  uncivilized  people,  rendered  this 
51 


52  The  Children's  PortioJt. 

malady  common  ;  but  at  the  time  in  which 
Prince  Bladud  lived,  no  cure  for  it  was 
known  to  the  Britons.  Being  highly  in- 
fectious, therefore,  all  persons  afflicted  with 
it  were  not  only  held  in  disgust  and  abhor- 
rence, but,  by  the  barbarous  laws  of  the 
times,  were  doomed  to  be  driven  from  the 
abodes  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  to  take 
their  chance  of  life  or  death  in  the  forests 
and  the  deserts,  exposed  alike  to  hunger  and 
to  beasts  of  prey. 

So  great  was  the  horror  of  this  disease 
among  the  heathen  Britons,  and  so  strictly 
was  the  law  for  preventing  its  extension  ob- 
served, that  even  the  rank  of  the  young 
prince  caused  no  exception  to  be  made  in 
his  favor.  Neither  was  his  tender  youth 
suffered  to  plead  for  sympathy  ;  and  the 
king  himself  was  unable  to  protect  his  own 
son  from  the  cruel  treatment  accorded  to 
the  lepers  of  those  days.  No  sooner  was 
the  report  whispered  abroad,  that  Prince 
Bladud  was  afflicted  with  leprosy,  than  the 
chiefs  and  elders  of  the  council  assembled 
together,  and  insisted  that  Lud  Hurdebras 
should  expel  his  son  from  the  royal  city,  and 
drive  him  forth  into  the  wilderness,  in  order 
to  prevent  the  dreaded  infection  from 
spreading. 

The  fond  mother  of  the  unfortunate  Bla- 
dud  vainl}^  endeavored    to   prevail    on  her 


TJie  Afflicted  Prince.  53 

royal  husband  to  resist  this  barbarous  in- 
junction. All  that  maternal  love  and 
female  tenderness  could  urge,  she  pleaded 
in  behalf  of  her  only  child,  whose  bodily 
sufferings  rendered  him  but  the  dearer 
object  of  affection  to  her  fond  bosom. 

The  distressed  father,  however  deeply 
and  painfully  he  felt  the  queen's  passionate 
appeal,  could  not  act  in  contradiction  to  the 
general  voice  of  his  subjects  ;  he  was  com- 
pelled to  stifle  all  emotions  of  natural  com- 
passion for  his  innocent  son,  and  to  doom 
him  to  perpetual  banishment, 

Bladud  awaited  his  father's  decision,  in 
tears  and  silence,  without  offering  a  single 
word  of  supplication,  lest  he  should  increase 
the  anguish  of  his  parent's  hearts.  But, 
when  the  cruel  sentence  of  banishment  was 
confirmed  by  the  voice  of  his  hitherto  doat- 
ing  sire,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  bitter  sorrow,  and 
covering  his  disfigured  visage  with  both 
hands,  turned  about  to  leave  the  haunts  of 
his  childhood  forever,  exclaiming,  "Who 
will  have  compassion  upon  me,  now  that  I 
am  abandoned  by  my  parents  ?  ' ' 

How  sw^eet,  how  consoling,  would  have 
been  the  answer  of  a  Christian  parent  to 
this  agonizing  question  ;  but  on  Bladud's 
mother  the  heavenly  light  of  Revelation  had 
never  shone.  She  knew  not  how  to  speak 
comfort  to  the  breaking  heart  of  her  son,  in. 


54  The  Children  s  Portion. 

those  cheering  words  of  Holy  Writ,  which 
would  have  been  so  applicable  to  his  case  in 
that  hour  of  desertion  :  When  thy  father 
and  thy  mother  forsake  thee,  I  will  take  thee 
tip.  She  could  onlj-  weep  with  her  son,  and 
try  to  soothe  his  sorrow  b}^  whispering  a 
hope,  which  vShe  was  far  from  feeling,  that 
the  day  might  come,  when  he  could  return 
to  his  father's  court,  cured  of  the  malady 
which  was  the  cause  of  his  banishment. 

' '  But  years  may  pass  away  before  that 
happy  day,  if  it  ever  should  come,"  replied 
the  weeping  boy  ;  "and  I  shall  be  altered 
in  stature  and  in  features  ;  the  tones  of  \\\\ 
voice  will  have  become  strange  to  your  ears, 
my  mother  !  Toil  and  sorrow  will  have  set 
their  hard  marks  upon  my  brow.  These 
garments,  now  so  brightly  stained  with 
figures  that  denote  my  royal  birth  and 
princely  station,  will  be  worn  bare,  or  ex- 
changed for  the  sheep-skin  vest  of  indi- 
gence. How,  then,  will  3'ou  know  that  I  am 
indeed  your  son,  should  I  ever  present  my- 
self before  you  cleansed  of  this  dreadful 
leprosy  ? ' ' 

"  M}^  son,"  replied  the  queen,  taking  a 
royal  ring  of  carved  agate  from  her  finger, 
and  placing  it  on  a  stand  before  him,  for  so 
great  was  the  terror  of  contagion  from  those 
afflicted  with  leprosy,  that  even  the  affec- 
tionate mother  of  Bladud  avoided  the  touch 


The  Afflicted  Prince,  55 

of  her  child, — "this  ring  was  wrought  by 
the  master-hand  of  a  Druid,  a  .skillful 
worker  in  precious  stones,  within  the  sacred 
circle  of  Stonehenge.  It  was  placed  upon 
ray  finger  before  the  mystic  altar,  when  I 
became  the  wife  of  the  king,  your  father, 
and  was  saluted  by  the  Arch- Druid  as 
Queen  of  Britain.  In  the  whole  world, 
there  is  not  another  like  unto  it  ;  and, 
should  you  bring  it  back  to  me,  by  that 
token  shall  I  know  3^ou  to  be  my  son,  even 
though  the  lapse  of  thrice  ten  years  shall  have 
passed  awa}^,  and  the  golden  locks  of  my 
princely  boy  shall  be  darkened  with  toil  and 
time,  and  no  longer  wave  over  a  smooth, 
unfurrowed  brow." 


II. 

The  unfortunate  Bladud,  having  carefully 
suspended  his  mother's  ring  about  his  neck, 
bade  her  a  tearful  farewell,  and  slowly  and 
sorrowfully  pursued  his  lonel}^  way  across 
the  hills  and  downs  of  that  part  of  England 
which  is  now  called  Somersetshire. 

Evening  was  closing  in  before  Bladud  met 
w4th  a  single  creature  to  show  him  the 
slightest  compassion.  At  length,  he  was  so 
fortunate  as  to  encounter  a  shepherd-boy, 
who  appeared  in  scarcel}-  less  distress  than 


56  The  Children's  Poj^tion. 

himself ;  for  one  of  the  sheep  belonging  to 
his  flock  had  fallen  into  a  ditch,  the  sides  of 
which  were  so  steep  that  he  was  unable  to 
pull  it  out  without  assistance. 

"Stranger,"  said  he,  addressing  the  out- 
cast prince,  ' '  if  ever  you  hope  to  obtain 
pity  from  others,  I  beseech  you  to  lend  me 
your  aid,  or  I  shall  be  severely  punished  by 
my  master,  for  suffering  this  sheep  to  fall 
into  the  ditch." 

Bladud  required  no  second  entreaty,  but 
hastily  divesting  himself  of  his  princely 
garments,  assisted  the  boy  in  extricating 
the  sheep  from  the  water.  The  grateful 
youth  bestowed  upon  him,  in  return,  a 
share  of  his  coarse  supper  of  oaten  cakes. 
Bladud,  who  had  not  broken  his  fast  since 
the  morning,  ate  this  with  greater  relish 
than  he  had  often  felt  for  the  dainties  of 
which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  partake  at 
his  father's  board. 

It  was  a  fine  and  lovely  evening  ;  the 
birds  were  singing  their  evening  song  ;  and 
a  delicious  fragrance  was  diffused  from  the 
purple  heath  and  the  blooming  wild  flowers. 
The  sheep  gathered  round  their  youthful 
keeper  ;  and  he  took  up  a  rustic  pipe,  made 
from  the  reeds  that  overhung  the  margin  of 
a  neighboring  rivulet,  and  played  a  merry 
tune,  quite  forgetful  of  his  past  trouble. 

Bladud    saw    that   a    peasant  boy,   while 


The  Afflicted  Prijtce.  57 

engaged  in  the  performance  of  his  duties, 
might  be  as  happy  as  a  prince.  Content- 
ment and  industry  sweeten  every  lot,  while 
useless  repining  only  tends  to  aggravate  the 
hardships  to  which  it  is  the  will  of  God  that 
the  human  family  should  be  exposed. 

"  You  appear  very  happy,"  said  Bladud 
to  his  new  friend. 

' '  How  should  I  be  otherwise  ?  ' '  replied 
the  shepherd-boy  :  "  I  have  wherewithal  to 
eat  and  to  drink  ;  I  have  strength  to  labor, 
and  health  to  enjoy  my  food.  I  sleep 
soundly  on  my  bed  of  rushes  after  the  toils 
of  the  day  ;  and  my  master  never  punishes 
me  except  for  carelessness  or  disobedience." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  shepherd-boy,  also," 
said  the  prince  :  "  can  you  tell  me  of  some 
kind  master,  who  would  employ  me  to  feed 
his  flocks  on  these  downs  ?  ' ' 

The  shepherd-boy  shook  his  head,  and 
replied,  "  You  are  a  stranger  lad  from  some 
distant  town  ;  most  probably,  by  your  fine 
painted  dress,  the  runaway  son  of  some 
great  person,  and  unacquainted  with  any 
sort  of  useful  occupation.  Let  me  hear 
w^hat  you  can  do  to  get  an  honest  living. ' ' 

Bladud  blushed  deeply.  He  had  been 
accustomed  to  spend  his  time  in  idle  sports 
with  the  sons  of  the  chieftains,  and  had  not 
acquired  the  knowledge  of  anything  likely 
to   be   of    service  in  his  present  situation. 


58  The  Childr ell's  Portion. 

He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  but  at 
length  replied,  ' '  I  can  brighten  arrows, 
string  bows,  and  shoot  at  a  mark." 

Math,  the  shepherd -boy,  advised  his  new 
companion,  in  his  rustic  language,  not  to 
mention  these  accomplishments  to  the  peace- 
ful herdsmen  of  Ca3msham,  (as  the  spot 
where  this  conference  took  place  is  now 
called,)  lest  it  should  create  a  prejudice 
against  him;  "neither,"  continued  he, 
'  *  would  I  counsel  you  to  sue  for  service  in 
a  suit  of  this  fashion."  He  laid  his  sun- 
burnt hand,  as  he  spoke,  on  Bladud's 
painted  vest,  lined  with  the  fur  of  squirrels, 
which  was  only  worn  by  persons  of  royal 
rank. 

"Will  you,  for  charity's  sake,  then,  ex- 
change your  sheep-skin  coat  for  my  costly 
garments  ?  ' '  asked  Bladud. 

"  Had  you  not  so  kindly  helped  me  to 
pull  my  sheep  out  of  the  ditch,  I  would 
have  said  to  you  nay,"  replied  Math  ;  "  but 
as  one  good  turn  deserves  another,  I  will 
even  give  you  my  true  shepherd's  suit  for 
your  finery."  So  saying,  he  exchanged 
suits  with  the  young  prince. 

"  And  now,"  said  Bladud,  "do  you  think 
I  may  venture  to  ask  one  of  the  herdsmen 
of  the  valley  to  trust  me  with  the  care  of  a 
flock?" 

''TrvLsiyou  with  the  care  of  a  flock,  for- 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  59 

sooth  !  ' '  cried  Math,  laughing  ;  "I  wonder 
at  your  presumption  in  thinking  of  such  a 
thing,  when  you  confess  yourself  ignorant 
of  all  the  duties  of  a  shepherd-boy  ! ' ' 

' '  They  are  very  simple,  and  can  easily  be 
learned,  I  should  think,"  said  Bladud. 

"Ay,"  replied  Math,  "or  you  had  not 
seen  them  practiced  by  so  simple  a  lad  as 
Math,  the  son  of  Goff.  But  as  all  learners 
must  have  a  beginning,  I  would  not  have 
you  aspire  at  first  to  a  higher  office  than 
that  of  a  swineherd's  boy  ;  for  remember, 
as  no  one  knows  who  you  are,  or  whence 
you  come,  you  must  not  expect  to  obtain 
much  notice  from  those  who  are  the  pos- 
sessors of  flocks  and  herds." 

Bladud  sighed  deeply  at  this  remark  ;  but 
as  he  felt  the  truth  of  what  Math  said,  he 
did  not  evince  any  displeasure  at  his  plain 
speaking.  He,  therefore,  mildly  requested 
Math  to  recommend  him  to  some  master 
who  would  give  him  employment. 

Math  happened  to  know  an  aged  swine- 
herd who  was  in  want  of  a  lad  of  Bladud 's 
age  to  attend  on  his  pigs.  He  accordingly 
introduced  his  new  friend,  Bladud,  as  a 
candidate  for  that  office  ;  and  his  mild  and 
sedate  manners  so  well  pleased  the  old  man, 
that  he  immediately  took  him  into  his  ser- 
vice. 

Bladud  at   first   felt   the   change    of    his 


6o  The  Children's  Portion. 

fortunes  very  keenly,  for  he  had  been  deli- 
cately fed  and  nurtured,  and  surrounded  by 
friends,  servants,  and  busy  flatterers.  He 
was  now  far  separated  from  all  who  knew  and 
loved  him  ;  exposed  to  wind  and  weather, 
heat  and  cold,  and  compelled  to  endure 
every  species  of  hardship.  He  had  no  other 
bed  than  straws  or  rushes  ;  his  food  was  far 
worse  than  that  which  is  now  eaten  b}^  the 
poorest  peasants,  who  deem  their  lot  so 
hard  ;  and  he  was  clothed  in  undressed 
sheep-skins,  from  which  the  wool  had  been 
shorn.  His  drink  was  only  water  from  the 
brook,  and  his  whole  time  was  occupied  in 
his  attendance  on  the  swine. 

At  the  earliest  peep  of  dawn  he  was  forced 
to  rise,  and  lead  forth  into  the  fields  and 
woods  a  numerous  herd  of  grunting  swine 
in  quest  of  food,  and  there  to  remain  till 
the  shades  of  evening  compelled  him  to 
drive  them  to  the  shelter  of  the  rude  sheds 
built  for  their  accommodation,  round  the 
wretched  hovel  wherein  his  master  dwelt. 
Bladud  was  sure  to  return  weary  and  hun- 
gry, and  often  wet  and  sorrowful,  to  his  for- 
lorn home.  Yet  he  did  not  murmur, 
though  suffering  at  the  same  time  under  a 
most  painful,  and,  as  he  supposed,  an  incur- 
able disease. 

He  endeavored  to  bear  the  hardships  of 
his  lot  with  patience,  and   he  derived  satis- 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  6i 

faction  from  the  faithful  performance  of  the 
duties  which  he  had  undertaken,  irksome  as 
they  were.  The  greatest  pain  he  endured, 
next  to  his  separation  from  his  parents,  was 
the  discovery  that  several  of  his  master's 
pigs  were  infected  with  the  same  loathsome 
disease  under  which  he  was  laboring  ;  and 
this  he  feared  would  draw  upon  him  the 
displeasure  of  the  old  herdsman. 

But  the  leprosy,  and  its  contagious  nature, 
were  evils  unknown  to  the  herdsmen  of 
Caynsham,  or  Bladud  would  never  have 
been  able  to  obtain  employment  there.  His 
master  was  an  aged  man,  nearly  blind,  who, 
being  convinced  of  the  faithful  disposition 
of  his  careful  attendant,  left  the  swine  en- 
tirely to  his  management ;  so  the  circum- 
stance of  several  of  the  most  valuable  of 
them  being  infected  with  leprosy,  was  never 
suspected  by  him.  Bladud  continued  to 
lead  them  into  the  fields  and  forests  in  quest 
of  their  daily  food,  without  incurring  either 
question  or  reproach  from  him,  or,  indeed, 
from  any  one,  for  it  was  a  thinly-inhabited 
district,  and  there  were  no  gossiping  neigh- 
bors to  bring  the  tale  of  trouble  to  the  old 
herdsman. 

But  though  Bladud's  misfortune  remained 
undetected,  he  was  seriously  unhappy,  for 
he  felt  himself  to  be  the  innocent  cause  of 
bringing   the   infection    of    a   sore    disease 


62  TJic  Children's  Poftion. 

among  his  master's  swiiie.  He  would  have 
revealed  the  whole  matter  to  him,  only  that 
he  feared  the  evil  could  not  now  be  cured. 

From  day  to  day  he  led  his  herd  deeper 
into  the  forests,  and  further  a-field  ;  for  he 
wished  to  escape  the  observation  of  ever>' 
eye.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  did  not  bring 
them  back  to  the  herdsmen's  enclosure 
above  once  in  a  w^eek.  In  the  meantime  he 
slept  at  night,  surrounded  by  his  uncouth 
companions,  under  the  shade  of  some  wide- 
spreading  oak  of  the  forest,  living  like  them, 
upon  acorns,  or  the  roots  of  the  pig-nuts, 
which  grew  in  the  woods  and  marshes,  and 
were,  when  roasted,  sweet  and  mealy,  like 
potatoes,  with  the  flavor  of  the  chestnut. 
These  were  dainties  in  comparison  to  the 
coarse,  black  unleavened  cakes  on  which 
poor  Bladud  had  been  used  to  feed  ever  since 
his  tmhappy  banishment. 

The  old  herdsman  was  perfectly  satisfied 
with  Bladud's  management  of  the  swine, 
and  glad  to  find  that  he  took  the  trouble  of 
leading  them  into  fresh  districts  for  change 
of  food,  of  which  swine  are  always  desirous. 

So  Bladud  continued  to  penetrate  into 
new  and  untrodden  solitudes  with  his  grunt- 
ing charge,  till  one  day  he  saw  the  bright 
waters  of  the  river  Avon  sparkling  before  him 
in  the  early  beams  of  the  morning  sun.  He 
felt  a  sudden  desire  of  crossing  this  pleasant 


The  Afflicted  Prince,  63 

stream.  It  was  the  fruitful  season  of 
autumn,  and  the  reddening  acorns,  with 
which  the  rich  oaken  groves  that  crowned 
the  noble  hills  on  the  opposite  side  were 
laden,  promised  an  abundant  feast  for  his 
master's  swine,  of  whose  wants  he  was 
always  mindful. 

He  would  not,  however,  venture  to  lead 
them  across  the  river  without  first  returning  to 
acquaint  his  master,  for  he  had  already  been 
abroad  more  than  a  week.  So  he  journeyed 
homeward,  and  reached  his  master's  hovel, 
with  his  whole  herd,  in  safety.  He  then 
reported  to  the  good  old  man,  that  he  had 
wandered  to  the  side  of  a  beautiful  river, 
and  beheld  from  its  grassy  banks  a  rich  and 
smiling  country,  wherein,  he  doubted  not, 
that  the  swine  would  find  food  of  the  best 
kind,  and  in  great  abundance.  * '  Prithee, 
master,"  quoth  he,  "suffer  me  to  drive  the 
herd  across  that  fair  stream,  and  if  aught 
amiss  befall  them,  it  shall  not  be  for  want  of 
due  care  and  caution  on  the  part  of  your 
faithful  boy." 

' '  Thou  art  free  to  lead  the  herd  across  the 
fair  stream  of  which  thou  speakest,  my  son, " 
replied  the  herdsman,  "  and  may  the  bless- 
ing of  an  old  man  go  with  them  and  thee; 
for  surely  thou  hast  been  faithful  and  wise  in 
all  thy  doings  since  thou  hast  been  my  ser- 
vant." 


64  TJie  Child r €71^ s  For f ion.         • 

That  very  day  he  set  out  once  more  to  the 
shores  of  the  silvery  Avon,  and  crossed  it 
with  the  delighted  pigs,  at  a  shallow  spot, 
which  has  ever  since  that  time,  in  memory 
thereof,  been  called  Swinford,  or  Swine' s- 
ford. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  they  reached  the 
opposite  shore,  than  the  whole  herd  set  off, 
galloping  and  scampering,  one  over  the 
other,  as  if  they  had  one  and  all  been  seized 
with  a  sudden  frenzy.  No  less  alarmed  than 
astonished  at  their  sudden  flight,  Bladud 
followed  them  at  his  quickest  speed,  and 
beheld  them  rapidly  descending  into  a 
valley,  towards  some  springs  of  water,  that 
seemed  to  ooze  out  of  the  bogg}^  land  in  its 
bottom,  amidst  rushes,  weeds,  and  long  rank 
grass.  Into  this  swamp  the  pigs  rushed 
headlong,  and  here  i\\ey  rolled  and  reveled, 
tumbling,  grunting,  and  squeaking,  and 
knocking  each  other  head  over  lieels,  with 
evident  delight,  but  to  the  utter  astonish- 
ment of  Bladud,  who  was  altogether  uncon- 
scious of  the  instinct  by  which  the  gratified 
animals  had  been  impelled. 

All  the  attempts  which  Bladud  made  to 
drive  or  entice  them  from  this  spot  were  en- 
tirely useless.  They  continued  to  wallow  in 
their  miry  bed,  until  at  length  the  calls  of 
hunger  induced  them  to  seek  the  woods  for 
food ;  but  after  they  had  eaten  a  hearty  meal 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  65 

of  acorns,  they  returned  to  the  swamp,  to 
the  increasing  surprise  of  Bladud.  As  for 
his  part,  having  taken  a  supper  of  coarse 
black  bread  and  roasted  acorns,  he  sought 
shelter  for  the  night  in  the  thick  branches 
of  a  large  oak-tree. 

Now  poor  Bladud  was  not  aware  that, 
guided  by  superior  Wisdom,  he  had,  un- 
known to  himself,  approached  a  spot  wherein 
there  existed  a  remarkable  natural  pecu- 
liarity. This  was  ijo  other  than  some  warm 
springs  of  salt  water,  which  ooze  out  of  the 
earth,  and  possess  certain  medicinal  proper- 
ties which  have  the  effect  of  curing  various 
diseases,  and  on  wdiich  account  they  are 
sought  by  afaicted  persons  even  to  the  pres- 
ent day. 


III. 


Bladud  awoke  with  the  first  beams  of 
morning,  and  discovered  his  grunting  charge 
still  actively  wallowing  in  the  oozy  bed  in 
which  they  had  taken  such  unaccountable 
delight  on  the  preceding  day. 

Bladud,  however,  who  was  accustomed  ta 
reason  and  to  reflect  on  everything  he  saw, 
had  often  observed  that  the  natural  instinct 
of  animals  prompted  them  to  do  such  things 
as  were  most  beneficial   to  them.     He  had. 


66  TJie  Children^  s  For  lion, 

noticed  that  cats  and  dogs,  when  sick,  had 
recourse  to  certain  herbs  and  grasses,  which 
proved  effectual  remedies  for  the  malady 
under  which  they  labored;  and  he  thought 
it  possible  that  pigs  might  be  endowed  with 
a  similar  faculty  of  discovering  an  antidote 
for  disease.  At  all  events  he  resolved  to 
watch  the  result  of  their  revelings  in  the 
warm  ooze  bath,  wherein  they  continued  to 
wallow,  between  whiles,  for  several  days. 

The  wisdom  of  this  propeeding  was  shortly 
manifested;  for  Bladud  soon  observed  that  a 
gradual  improvement  was  taking  place  in 
the  appearance  of  the  swine. 

The  leprous  scales  fell  off  b}?-  degrees,  and 
in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  the  leprosy 
gradually  disappeared,  and  the  whole  herd 
being  cleansed,  was  restored  to  a  sound  and 
healthy  state. 

The  heart  of  the  outcast  prince  was  buo}^- 
ant  with  hope  and  joy  when  the  idea  first 
presented  itself  to  his  mind,  that  the  same 
simple  remedy  which  had  restored  the  in- 
fected swine  might  be  equally  efficacious  in 
his  own  case.  Divesting  himself  of  his 
humble  clothing  and  elate  with  joy  and 
hope,  he  plunged  into  the  warm  salt  ooze 
bed,  wherein  his  pigs  had  reveled  with  so 
much  advantage. 

He  was  soon  sensible  of  an  abatement  of 
the   irritable  and   painful   symptoms  of  his 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  67 

loatlisome  malady;  and,  in  a  short  time,  by 
persevering  in  the  use  of  the  remedy  which 
the  natural  sagacity  of  his  humble  compan- 
ions had  suggested,  he  became  wholly  cured 
of  the  leprosy  and  was  delighted  to  find  him- 
self restored  to  health  and  vigor. 

After  bathing,  and  washing  away  in  the 
river  the  stains  of  the  ooze,  he  first  beheld 
the  reflection  of  his  own  features  in  the  clear 
mirror  of  the  stream.  He  perceived  that  his 
skin,  which  had  been  so  lately  disfigured  by 
foul  blotches  and  frightful  scales,  so  as  to 
render  him  an  object  of  abhorrance  to  his 
nearest  and  dearest  friends,  was  now  smooth, 
fair,  and  clear. 

"Oh,  my  mother  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  the 
overpowering  rapture  of  his  feelings  on  this 
discovery,  "I  ma}"  then  hope  to  behold  thy 
face  once  more!  and  thou  wilt  no  longer 
shrink  from  the  embrace  of  th}^  son,  as  in 
the  sad,  sad  hour  of  our  sorrow^ful  parting!" 

He  pressed  the  agate  ring  which  she  had 
given  him  as  her  farewell  token  of  remem- 
brance, to  his  lips  and  to  his  bosom,  as  he 
spoke;  then  quitting  the  water,  he  once 
more  arrayed  himself  in  the  miserable  garb 
of  his  lowly  fortunes,  and  guided  his  mas- 
ter's herd  homeward. 

The  old  man,  who  w^as  beginning  to  grow 
uneasy  at  the  unwonted  length  of  Bladud's 
absence,  and  fearing  that  some  accident  had 


68  The  Child?^e?i^s  Portion, 

befallen  the  swine,  was  about  to  set  forth  in 
search  of  him,  when  he  heard  the  approach 
of  the  noisy  herd,  and  perceived  Bladud  ad- 
vancing toward  him. 

* '  Is  all  well  with  thyself  and  with  the  herd 
my  son  ?"  inquired  the  old  man. 

"  All  is  well,  my  father,"  replied  Bladud, 
bowing  himself  before  his  lowly  master, 
"yea,  more  than  well;  for  the  blessing  of 
the  great  Disposer  of  all  that  befalleth  the 
children  of  men,  hath  been  with  me.  I  left 
you  as  a  poor  destitute,  afflicted  with  a  sore 
disease,  that  had  rendered  me  loathsome  to 
my  own  house,  and  despised  and  shunned  by 
all  men.  I  was  driven  forth  from  the  dwell- 
ings of  health  and  gladness,  and  forced  to 
seek  shelter  in  the  wilderness.  From  being 
the  son  of  a  king,  I  was  reduced  to  become 
the  servant  of  one  of  the  humblest  of  his 
subjects,  and  esteemed  myself  fortunate  in 
obtaining  the  care  of  a  herd  of  swine,  that 
I  might  obtain  even  a  morsel  of  coarse  food, 
and  a  place  wherein  to  lay  my  head  at 
night.  But,  behold,  through  this  very 
thing  have  I  been  healed  of  my  leprosy!" 

"And  who  art  thou,  my  son  ?"  demanded 
the  old  herdsman,  in  whose  ears  the  words 
of  his  youthful  servant  sounded  like  the 
language  of  a  dream. 

"I  am  Bladud,  the  son  of  Lud  Hurdebras, 
thy   king, "  replied    the   youth.      "Up — let 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  69 

us  be  going,  for  the  time  seemeth  long  to  me, 
till  I  once  more  look  upon  his  face,  and  that 
of  the  queen,  my  mother." 

' '  Thou  hast  never  yet  in  aught  deceived 
me,  my  son,"  observed  the  herdsman,  ''else 
should  I  say  thou  wert  mocking  me  with 
some  wild  fable;  so  passing  all  belief  doth  it 
seem,  that  the  son  of  my  lord  the  king 
should  have  been  contented  to  dwell  with  so 
poor  and  humble  a  man  as  m\^self  in  the 
capacity  of  a  servant." 

"  In  truth,  the  trial  was  a  hard  one,"  re- 
plied Bladud ;  '  *  but  I  knew  that  it  was  my 
duty  to  submit  to  the  direction  of  that 
heavenl}^  Guardian  who  has  thus  shaped  my 
lot  after  His  good  pleasure;  and  now  do  I 
perceive  that  it  was  in  love  and  mercy,  as 
well  as  in  wisdom,  that  I  have  been  afflic- 
ted." Bladud  then  proposed  to  his  master 
that  he  should  accompany  him  to  his  father's 
court;  to  which  the  old  herdsman,  who 
scarcely  yet  credited  the  assertion  of  his 
young  attendant,  at  length  consented;  and 
they  journeyed  together  to  the  ro3^al  city. 

In  these  da\^s,  many  a  mean  village  is  in 
appearance  a  more  important  place  than 
were  the  royal  cities  wherein  the  ancient 
British  kings  kept  court;  for  these  were 
merely  large  straggling  enclosures,  sur- 
rounded with  trenches  and  hedge-rows, 
containing    a    few  groups  of  wattled   huts^ 


70  The  CJiildren^s  Portion. 

plastered  over  with  clay.  The  huts  were 
built  round  the  king's  palace,  which  was 
not  itself  a  more  commodious  building  than 
a  modern  barn,  and  having  neither  chimneys 
nor  glazed  windows,  must  have  been  but  a 
miserable  abode  in  the  winter  season. 

At  the  period  to  which  our  story  has  now 
conducted  us,  it  was,  however,  a  fine  warm 
autumn  day.  King  Hurdebras  and  his  queen 
were  therefore  dwelling  in  an  open  pavilion, 
formed  of  the  trunks  of  trees,  which  were 
covered  over  with  boughs,  and  garlanded 
with  wreaths  of  wild  flowers. 

Bladud  and  his  master  arrived  during  the 
celebration  of  a  great  festival,  held  to  com- 
memorate the  acorn-gathering,  which  was 
then  completed.  All  ranks  and  conditions 
of  people  w^ere  assembled  in  their  holiday 
attire,  which  varied  from  simple  sheep-skins 
to  the  fur  of  wolves,  cats,  and  rabbits. 

Among  all  this  concourse  of  people, 
Bladud  was  remarked  for  the  poverty  ot 
his  garments,  which  were  of  the  rude  fashion 
and  coarse  material  of  those  of  the  humblest 
peasant.  As  for  the  old  herdsman,  his  mas- 
ter, when  he  observed  the  little  respect  with 
which  Bladud  was  treated  by  the  rude 
crowds  who  were  thronging  to  the  royal 
city,  he  began  to  suspect  either  that  the  youth 
himself  had  been  deluded  by  some  strange 
dream  respecting  his  royal  birth  and  breed- 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  7 1 

ing,  or  that  for  knavish  purposes  he  had 
practiced  on  his  credulity,  in  inducing  him 
to  undertake  so  long  a  journey. 

These  reflections  put  the  old  man  into  an 
ill  humor,  which  was  greatly  increased 
w^hen,  on  entering  the  city,  he  became  an 
object  of  boisterous  mirth  and  rude  jest  to 
the  populace.  On  endeavoring  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  this  annoyance,  he  discovered 
that  one  of  his  most  valuable  pigs,  that  had 
formed  a  very  powerful  attachment  to 
Prince  Bladud,  had  foUov/ed  them  on  their 
journey,  and  was  now  grunting  at  their 
very  heels. 

The  herdsman's  anger  at  length  broke  out 
in  words,  and  he  bitterly  upbraided  Bladud 
for  having  beguiled  him  into  such  a  wild- 
goose  expedition.  "And,  as  if  that  were 
not  enough,"  quoth  he,  "thou  couldst  not 
be  contented  without  bringing  thy  pet  pig 
hither,  to  make  a  fool  both  of  thyself  and 
me.  Why,  veril}^,  we  are  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  whole  cit^^" 

Bladud  mildly  assured  his  master  that  it 
was  through  no  act  of  his  that  the  pig  had 
followed  them  to  his  father's  court. 

"Thy  father's  court,  forsooth!"  retorted 
the  old  man,  angrily;  "  I  do  verily  believe 
it  is  all  a  trick  which  thou  hast  cunningly 
planned,  for  the  sake  of  stealing  my  best 
pig.  Else  why  shouldst  thou  have  per- 
mitted it  to  follow  thee  thither?" 


72  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

Bladud  was  prevented  from  replying  to 
this  unjust  accusation  by  a  rabble  of  rude 
boys,  who  had  gathered  round  them,  and 
began  to  assail  the  poor  pig  with  sticks  and 
stones.  Bladud  at  first  mildly  requested 
them  to  desist  from  such  cruel  sport ;  but 
finding  that  they  paid  no  attention  to  his 
remonstrances,  he  began  to  deal  out  blows, 
right  and  left,  with  his  stout  quarter- staff, 
by  which  he  kept  the  foremost  at  bay,  call- 
ing at  the  same  time  on  his  master  to  assist 
him  in  defending  the  pig. 

But  Bladud  and  his  master  together  were 
very  unequally  matched  against  this  lawless 
band  of  young  aggressors.  They  certainly 
would  have  been  very  roughly  handled,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  unexpected  aid  of  a  shep- 
herd-lad who  came  to  their  assistance,  and, 
with  the  help  of  his  faithful  dog,  succeeded 
in  driving  away  the  most  troublesome  of 
their  assailants. 

In  this  brave  and  generous  ally,  Bladud 
had  the  satisfaction  of  discovering  his  old 
friend  Math  of  the  Downs.  So  completely, 
however,  was  Bladud' s  appearance  changed 
in  consequence  of  his  being  cleansed  of  the 
leprosy,  that  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  convince  Math  that  he  was  the 
wretched  and  forlorn  outcast  with  whom  he 
had  changed  clothes,  nearly  a  twelvemonth 
before  on  the  Somersetshire  Downs. 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  73 

Math,  however,  presently  remembered 
his  old  clothes,  in  the  sorry  remains  of 
which  Bladud  was  still  dressed  ;  and  Bladud 
also  pointed  with  a  smile  to  the  painted  vest 
of  a  British  prince,  in  which  the  young 
shepherd  had  arrayed  himself  to  attend  the 
festival  of  the  acorn-gathering.  Strange  to 
say,  the  generous  boy  had  altogether  escaped 
infection  from  the  clothes  of  his  diseased 
prince. 

Bladud  now  briefly  explained  his  situation 
to  the  astonished  Math,  whom  he  invited  to 
join  himself  and  his  master  in  their  visit  to 
the  royal  pavilion,  in  order  that  he  might 
be  a  witness  of  his  restoration  to  the  arms 
of  his  parents,  and  the  honors  of  his  father's 
court. 

Math,  though  still  more  incredulous  than 
even  the  old  herdsman,  was  strongly  moved 
by  curiosity  to  witness  the  interview.  He 
stoutly  assisted  Bladud  in  making  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  who  appeared  resolutely 
bent  on  impeding  their  progress  to  the  royal 
pavilion,  which,  however,  they  at  length 
approached,  still  followed  by  the  persevering 
pig- 


74  TJie  Children'* s  Portion, 

IV. 

The  last  load  of  acorns,  adorned  with  the 
faded  branches  of  the  noble  oak,  and 
crowned  with  the  mistletoe,  a  plant  which 
the  Druids  taught  the  ancient  Britons  to 
hold  in  superstitious  reverence,  was  now 
borne  into  the  city,  preceded  by  a  band  of 
Druids  in  their  long  white  robes,  and  a 
company  of  minstrels,  singing  songs,  and 
dancing  before  the  wain.  The  king  and 
queen  came  forth  to  meet  the  procession, 
and,  after  addressing  suitable  speeches  to  the 
Druids  and  the  people,  re-entered  the 
pavilion,  where  they  sat  down  to  regale 
themselves. 

Bladud,  who  had  continued  to  press  for- 
ward, now  availed  himself  of  an  opportunity 
of  entering  the  pavilion  behind  one  of  the 
queen's  favorite  ladies,  whose  office  it  was 
to  fill  her  royal  mistress'  goblet  with  mead. 
This  lady  had  been  Bladud' s  nurse,  which 
rendered  her  very  dear  to  the  queen,  whom 
nothing  could  console  for  the  loss  of  her 
son. 

Bladud,  concealed  from  observation  by 
one  of  the  rude  pillars  that  supported  the 
roof  of  the  building,  contemplated  the  scene 
in  silence,  which  was  broken  only  by  the 
agitated  beating  of  his  swelling  heart.  He 
observed  that  the  queen,  his  mother,  looked 


The  Afflicted  Prince.  75 

sad  and  pale,  and  that  she  scarcely  tasted  of 
the  cheer  before  her.  She  sighed  deeply 
from  time  to  time,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  vacant  place  which,  in  former  happy 
days  used  to  be  occupied  by  her  only  son  ! 

King  Hurdebras  endeavored  to  prevail 
upon  her  to  partake  of  some  of  the  dainties 
with  which  the  board  w^as  spread. 

' '  How  can  I  partake  of  costly  food, ' '  she 
replied,  "  when  my  only  child  is  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and,  perchance, 
lacketh  bread  ? ' ' 

Bladud,  unable  longer  to  restrain  the 
emotions  under  which  he  labored,  now^ 
softl}^  stole  from  behind  the  pillar,  and,  un- 
perceived,  dropped  the  agate  ring  into  his 
mother's  goblet. 

"Na3%"  replied  the  king,  "but  this  is 
useless  sorrow,  my  lady  queen.  Thinkest 
thou  that  I  have  borne  the  loss  of  our  only 
son  without  grief  and  sorrow  ?  Deepl}^  have 
I  also  suffered  ;  but  w^e  must  not  forget  that 
it  is  our  duty  to  bow  with  humility  to  the 
w4se  decrees  of  the  great  Disposer  of  all 
human  events  ?  ' ' 

' '  But  canst  thou  feel  our  loss  in  like  de- 
gree with  me?"  she  exclaimed,  bursting 
into  tears  ;  "what  shall  equal  a  mother's 
love,  or  the  grief  of  her  who  sorroweth  for 
her  only  one  ? ' ' 

"Fill  high  the  goblet,  Hetha,"   said  the 


76  TJie  Children's  Pcn'tion. 

king,  turning  to  the  favorite  of  his  roj^al 
consort  ;  "  and  implore  the  queen,  thy  mis- 
tress, to  taste  of  the  sweet  mead,  and,  for 
the  happiness  of  those  around  her,  to  subdue 
her  sorrow. ' ' 

The  queen,  after  some  persuasion,  took 
the  wine-cup,  and  raised  it  with  a  reluctant 
hand  ;  but,  ere  the  sparkling  liquor  reached 
her  lips,  she  perceived  the  ring  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  goblet,  and  hastih'  pouring  the 
mead  upon  the  ground,  seized  the  precious 
token,  and  holding  it  up,  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
exclaimed,  "  My  son  !  my  son  !  " 

Bladud  sprang  forward,  and  bowed  his 
knee  to  the  earth  before  her.  ' '  Hast  thou 
forgotten  me,  oh  !  ni}^  mother  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  faltering  voice  ;  for  the  queen, 
accustomed  to  see  her  princely  son  attired 
in  robes  befitting  his  royal  birth,  looked 
with  a  doubtful  eye  on  the  ragged  garb  of 
abject  indigence  in  which  the  youth  was 
arra3^ed.  Moreover,  he  was  sun-lnirnt  and 
weather-beaten  ;  had  grown  tall  and  robust; 
and  was,  withal,  attended  by  his  strange 
friend,  the  pig,  who,  in  the  untaught 
warmth  of  his  affection,  had  intruded  him- 
self into  the  presence  of  royalty,  in  the  train 
of  his  master. 

A  second  glance  convinced  the  queen,  the 
king,  and  the  delightful  Hetha,  that  it  was 
indeed  the  long-lost  Bladud  upon  whom  they 


The  Afflicted  Pi'-iitce.  77 

looked  ;  and  it  scarcely  required  the  testi- 
mony of  the  old  herdsman,  his  master,  and 
that  of  his  friend  Math,  the  shepherd,  to 
certify  the  fact,  and  bear  witness  to  the 
truth  of  his  simple  tale. 

Touching  was  the  scene  when  the  king, 
recovering  from  the  surprise  into  which  the 
first  shock  of  recognition  had  plunged  him, 
rushed  forward  and  clasped  his  long-lost  son 
to  his  bosom.  The  big  tear-drops  rolled 
down  his  manly  cheeks,  and,  relaxing  the 
dignity  of  the  king,  and  the  sternness  of  the 
warrior,  all  the  energies  of  his  nature  were 
embodied  in  the  one  single  feeling,  that  he 
was  a  happy  and  a  beloved  father  ! 

The  news  of  the  return  of  their  prince 
spread  throughout  the  assembled  multitudes, 
on  wings  of  joy.  Loud  and  long  were  the 
shouts  and  acclamations  which  burst  forth 
in  every  direction,  as  the  distant  groups  be- 
came apprised  of  the  event.  The  Druids 
and  the  Minstrels  formed  themselves  into  pro- 
cessions, in  which  the  people  joined  ;  and 
the  harpers,  sounding  their  loudest  strains, 
struck  up  their  songs  of  joy  and  triumph. 
The  oxen,  loosened  from  the  wains,  and 
decked  with  garlands  of  flowers,  were  led 
forward  in  the  train  ;  and  the  dancers  and 
revelers  followed,  performing  with  energy 
and  delight  their  rude  sports  and  pastimes 
around  the  king's  pavilion. 


78  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

Night  at  length  closed  upon  the  happy- 
scene,  and  the  king  and  queen  retired  to 
their  tent,  accompanied  by  their  son,  to 
learn  from  his  lips  the  course  of  events  by 
which  his  life  had  been  preserved,  and  his 
health  restored.  They  joined  in  humble 
thanks  to  the  Great  Author  of  all  happiness, 
for  the  special  blessings  that  had  been  be- 
stowed upon  them  ;  and  the  king  marked 
his  sense  of  gratitude  b}^  gifts  and  benefits 
extended  to  the  helpless  and  the  deserving 
among  his  subjects.  The  good  old  herds- 
man was  among  the  most  favored,  and  the 
worthy  Math  was  put  in  a  path  of  honor 
and  promotion,  of  which  he  proved  himself 
well  deserving. 


"HISLUDSHIP." 

BARBARA   YECHTON. 

You  could  not  have  found  anywhere  two 
happier  boys  than  were  Charlie  andSelwyn 
Kingsley  one  Saturday  morning  early  in 
June.  In  their  delight  they  threw  their 
arms  around  each  other  and  danced  up  and 
down  the  piazza,  the}^  tossed  their  hats  in 
the  air  and  hurrahed,  they  sprang  down 
the  stone  steps  two  at  a  time,  dashed  about 
the  grounds  in  a  wild  fashion  that  excited 
their  dog  Fritz,  and  set  him  barking  in  the 
expectation  of  a  frolic,  then  raced  across  to 
their  special  chum  and  playmate,  Ned 
Petry.  They  arrived  there  almost  out  of 
breath,  but  with  such  beaming  faces  that 
before  they  reached  the  hammock  where 
he  lay  swinging  Ned  called  out,  "Halloa! 
what's  happened?  Something  good,  I 
know." 

"We're  going — "  panted  Charlie,  drop- 
ping down  on  the  grass  beside  himi. 

"To  Europe!"  supplemented  Selwyn. 

"No!"  cried  Ned,  springing  up.  "Isn't 
that  just  jolly!  When  do  you  sail,  and 
w^ho  all  are  going?  Let's  sit  in  the  ham- 
mock together.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it. ' ' 
The  three  boys  crowded  into  the  hammock, 

79 


8o  The  Children's  Portion. 

and  for  a  few  minutes  questions  and 
answers  flew  thick  and  fast. 

"You  know  we've  alwa3's  wanted  to  go," 
said  Charlie.  Ned  nodded.  "And  the 
last  time  papa  went  he  promised  he'd  take 
us  the  next  trip,  but  we  didn't  dream  he 
was  going  this  summer. ' ' 

"Though  we  suspected  something  was 
up,"  broke  in  Selwjai,  "because  for  about 
a  week  past  whenever  Charlie  and  I  would 
come  into  the  room  papa  and  mamma'd 
stop  talking;  but  we  never  thought  of 
Europe." 

"Until  this  morning,"  continued  Charlie, 
"after  breakfast,  when  papa  said,  'Boys, 
how  would  you  like  a  trip  to  Europe  with 
your  mother  and  me?'  " 

"At  first  we  thought  he  was  joking,*' 
again  interrupted  eager  little  Selwjm, 
"because  his  eyes  twinkled  just  as  they  do 
when  he  is  telling  a  joke." 

"But  he  wasn't,"  resumed  his  brother, 
"and  the  long  and  short  of  the  matter  is 
that  we  are  all — papa,  mamma,  sister 
Agatha,  Selwjm,  and  I — to  sail  in  the 
Majestic,  June  17,  so  we've  onl)'  about  a 
week  more  to  wait." 

"Oh!  oh!  it's  too  splendid  for  any- 
thing!" cried  Selwyn,  clapping  his  hands 
in  delight  and  giving  the  hammock  a  sud- 
den impetus,  which  set  it  swaying  rapidly. 


''His  Liidship:'  8i 

* 'We're  to  spend  some  time  with  Uncle 
Geoffrey  Barrington — you  know,  Ned, 
Rex's  father — and  we're  to  see  all  the 
sights  of  'famous  lyondon  town' — the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  the  Zoo,  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  and  the  dear  old  Tower !  Just 
think  of  it,  Ned,  papa's  going  to  show  us 
the  very  cells  in  which  Lady  Jane  Grey 
and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  were  shut  up !  Oh, 
don't  I  wish  you  were  going,  too!" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  splendid!"  said  Charlie, 
throwing  his  arm  across  Ned's  shoulders. 

"Wouldn't  it!"  echoed  Ned,  ruefully. 
"I  wonder  w^hen  our  turn  will  come;  soon, 
I  hope.     I  shall  miss  you  fellows  awfully." 

"Nevermind,  Ned,  w^e'll  write  to  you," 
cried  both  boys,  warmly,  "and  tell  you  all 
about  everything." 

The  next  week  w^as  full  of  pleasant 
excitement  for  Charlie  and  Selwyn.  They 
left  school  a  few  days  before  it  closed  that 
they  might  help  mamma  and  sister  Agatha, 
who  were  very  bus^^  getting  things  into 
what  papa  called  "leaving  order."  There 
w^as  a  great  deal  to  do,  but  at  last  every- 
thing was  accomplished,  the  steamer  trunks 
had  been  packed,  and  some  last  good-byes 
spoken.  Fritz  and  the  rabbits  had  been 
given  into  Ned's  keeping  with  many 
injunctions  and  cautions.  Carefully 
wrapped    in    cloths,    the   bo3^s   had   placed 


82  The  Childr ell's  Poi'tioii. 

their  bicycles  in  the  seclusion  which  a  gar- 
ret granted.  Balls,  tennis  rackets,  boxes 
of  pet  tools,  favorite  books,  everything,  in 
fact,  had  been  thought  of  and  cared  for, 
and  at  last  the  eventful  day  of  sailing 
arrived. 

A  number  of  friends  came  to  the  city  to 
see  the  Kingsleys  off.  They  sat  in  the 
saloon  of  the  big  steamer  with  Mrs.  Kings- 
ley  and  her  daughter,  while  the  boys,  under 
papa's  care,  remained  on  the  dock  for  a 
while,  deeply  interested  in  their  unusual 
surroundings.  They  were  almost  wild 
with  excitement,  which  not  even  the  pros- 
pect of  parting  with  Ned  could  quiet,  and 
it  is  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  there  was 
so  much  going  on. 

The  long  covered  dock  was  crowded  with 
men,  women,  and  children,  nearly  all  of 
whom  were  talking  at  the  same  time. 
Large  wagons  were  unloading;  trunks, 
boxes  and  steamer-chairs  stood  about,  which 
the  steamer  "hands"  were  carrying  up  the 
gangw^ay  as  rapidly  as  possible ;  huge  cases, 
burlap-covered  bundles,  barrels  and  boxes 
were  being  lowered  into  the  hold  by  means 
of  a  derrick ;  men  were  shouting,  children 
crying,  horses  champing,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  loving  last  words  were 
being  spoken. 

When  papa  joined  the  grown  people  in 


''His  LiLdshipy  83 

the  saloon,  Charlie,  Selwyn,  and  Ned  made 
a  tour  of  the  steamer.  Of  course  they  were 
careful  not  to  get  in  the  way  of  the  busy 
sailors,  but  they  found  lots  to  see  without 
doing  that.  First,  wraps  and  hand-satchels 
were  deposited  in  their  state-rooms,  which 
were  directly  opposite  each  other,  and  the 
state-rooms  thoroughly  investigated,  each 
boy  climbing  into  the  upper  berths  "to  see 
how  it  felt."  Then  they  visited  the 
kitchen,  saw  the  enormous  tea  and  coffee 
pots,  and  the  deep,  round  shining  pans  in 
which  the  food  was  cooked.  But  they  did 
not  stay  here  long,  as  it  was  nearly  dinner 
time,  and  everybody  was  very  busy.  Next 
came  the  engine-room,  which  completely 
fascinated  them  with  its  many  wheels  and 
rods  and  bolts,  all  shining  like  new  silver 
and  gold. 

From  there  they  went  on  deck,  clambered 
up  little  flights  of  steps  as  steep  as  ladders 
and  as  slippery  as  glass;  walked  about  the 
upper  deck,  and  managed  to  see  a  great 
deal  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes.  By  the 
time  they  returned  to  the  gang^vay  all  the 
baggage  and  merchandise  had  been  taken 
on  board.  A  man  in  a  blue  coat  with  brass 
buttons,  and  a  cap  with  a  gilt  band  around 
it,  called  out  in  a  loud  voice,  "All  on 
shore!"  and  then  came  last  good-byes. 
Smiles   and   laughter   vanished,    tears  and 


84  The  Children's  Portion. 

sobs  took  their  places.  ' '  Good-bye  J "  "  God 
bless  you!'*  "Bon  voyage!"  "Don't  forget 
to  write!"  was  heard  on  every  side. 
Mamma  and  sister  Agatha  shed  a  few  tears ; 
even  papa  was  seen  to  take  off  his  glasses 
several  times  to  wipe  the  moisture  which 
would  collect  on  them. 

Of  course,  Charlie,  Selwyn,  and  Ned 
wouldn't  cry,  that  was  "too  babyish;"  but 
they  had  to  wink  very  hard  at  one  time  to 
avert  such  a  disgrace,  and  just  at  the  last, 
when  no  one  was  looking,  they  threw  dig- 
nity to  the  winds,  and  heartily  kissed  each 
other  good-bye. 

"Write  just  as  soon  as  you  get  over," 
cried  Ned,  as  he  ran  down  the  gangway. 

"We  will,  indeed  we  will!"  the  boys 
answered,  eagerl}^  Then  the  gangwa>- 
was  drawn  on  board,  the  engine  began  to 
move,  and  the  big  ship  steamed  away  from 
the  pier  in  fine  style,  with  flags  flying  and 
handkerchiefs  fluttering. 

Mrs.  Kingsley  was  confined  to  her  berth 
for  nearly  all  of  the  vo3^age,  but  the  rest  of 
the  family  remained  in  excellent  health 
and  spirits,  and  the  boys  thoroughly 
enjoyed  themselves. 

When  about  three  days  out  the  ship 
passed  near  enough  to  an  iceberg  for  the 
passengers  to  distinguish  distinctly  its 
castle-like  outline,  and  to  feel  the  chill  it 
gave  to  the  air. 


''His  Ludshipy  85 

Our  two  boys  were  such  courteous,  kindly 
little  gentlemen  that  all  who  came  in  con- 
tact with  them  liked  them,  and  returned  to 
them  the  same  measure  that  they  gave. 
The  captain  even  took  them  on  the 
"bridge,"  a  favor  which  was  not  accorded 
to  any  other  boy  or  girl  on  board.  And 
what  with  visiting  the  engine-room,  wait- 
ing on  mamma  and  sister  Agatha,  walking 
and  talking  with  papa,  sitting  in  their 
steamer-chairs,  and  paying  proper  attention 
to  the  good  things  which  were  served  four 
or  five  times  a  day,  Charlie  and  Selwyn 
found  that  the  time  fairly  flew  away.  Sel- 
wyn  had  brought  "An  American  Boy  in 
London"  to  read  aloud  to  Charlie,  but 
there  were  so  many  other  interesting  things 
to  occupy  their  attention  that  only  one 
chapter  was  accomplished. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  seventh  day  after 
leaving  New  York,  the  Majestic  steamed 
up  to  the  Liverpool  dock,  and  a  few  hours 
later  the  Kingsleys  found  themselves  com- 
fortably settled  in  a  railroad  carriage  en 
route  for  London.  It  was  late  when  they 
arrived  in  the  great  metropolis:,  and  every 
one  was  glad  enough  to  get  to  the  hotel  and 
to  rest  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Early  the  next  morning  Unelie  Geoffrey 
Harrington  came  to  carry  off  the  entire 
family  to  his  big  house  ig.  Portland  Place. 


86  The  Childroi's  Portion. 

Here  he  declared  they  should  remain  during 
their  stay  in  London,  and  as  he  had  a 
charming  wife  and  grown-up  daughter, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  Mrs.  Kingsle)" 
and  sister  Agatha,  and  a  son  about 
Charlie's  age,  who  was  full  of  fun  and 
friendliness,  all  parties  found  themselves 
well  satisfied  with  the  arrangement. 

Uncle  Geof  was  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
Queen's  Bench,  and  a  very  busy  man,  so 
he  could  not  always  go  about  with  his 
American  relatives;  but  Dr.  Kingsley  was 
well  acquainted  with  London,  and  there- 
fore able  to  escort  his  part}^  to  all  the  places 
of  interest.  I  only  wish  I  had  time  to  tell 
you  of  all  the  delightful  trips  they  took, 
and  all  the  interesting  things  they  saw  in 
this  fascinating  old  city.  Visits  to  the 
Tower,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  where 
they  heard  "Big  Ben"  strike  the  hour — 
and  Westminster  Abbey  with  its  illustrious 
dead ;  excursions  to  Windsor  and  the  Crys- 
tal Palace;  sails  down  the  Thames,  and 
dinners  and  teas  at  Richmond  and  Kew 
Gardens,  driving  home  by  moonlight! 
How  the  boys  did  enjoy  it  all,  and  what 
long  letters  went  home  to  America 
addressed  to  Master  Edward  Petry ! 

All  this  sight-seeing  took  up  many  days; 
three  weeks  slipped  by  before  anybody 
realized  it,  and  Dr.  Kingsley  was  talking 


>> 


''His  Ltidshipr  87 

of  a  trip  to  the  Continent,   when  a   little 
incident  occurred  of  which  I  must  tell  you. 

Rex  and  his  American  cousins  had 
become  the  best  of  friends.  He  knew  all 
about  their  pretty  home  in  Orange,  about 
Ned  and  the  rabbits,  Fritz,  the  bicycling, 
and  the  tennis  playing,  while  they  in  their 
turn  took  the  deepest  interest  in  his  country 
and  Eton  experiences.  They  took  "bus 
rides  together,  and  played  jokes  on  the 
pompous  footman,  whom  Charlie  had  nick- 
named the  "S.  C."   (Superb  Creature). 

One  morning  Rex  and  our  two  boys  w^ent 
to  Justice  Barrnigton's  chambers.  There 
they  expected  to  find  Dr.  Kingsley,  but 
when  they  arrived  only  Jar\'is,  the  solemn- 
faced  old  servitor,  met  them.  He  showed 
them  into  the  inner  room  and  left  them  to 
their  own  devices,  sajnng  that  "hisludship 
and  the  reverend  doctor"  would,  no  doubt, 
soon  be  in. 

The  room  w^as  very  dark;  three  sides 
were  covered  w4th  uninteresting-looking 
law  books,  and  after  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow, which  overlooked  a  quiet  little  church- 
3^ard  where  the  monuments  and  headstones 
were  falling  into  decay,  the  three  boys 
were  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  themselves. 
Charlie  and  Selw}^  would  have  liked  a 
walk  about  the  neighborhood,  but  Reginald 
demurred.     "It's  a  horrid  bore  being  shut 


88  The  Childreii's  Portion. 

up  here,"  he  admitted  frankly,  "but  papa 
might  return  while  we  were  out,  and  I'm 
not  sure  that  he  would  like  to  find  us 
away.  I  wish  I  could  think  of  some  way 
to  amuse  you.  Oh,  I  know — we  were  talk- 
ing about  barristers'  robes  the  other  day ; 
I'll  show  you  papa's  gown  and  wig.  I 
know  where  Jarvis  keeps  them.  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  see  them?" 

"Indeed  we  should,"  responded  the 
American  boys.  So,  after  hunting  for  the 
key,  Rex  opened  what  he  called  a  "cup- 
board" (though  Charlie  and  Selwyn  thought 
it  a  closet),  where  hung  a  long  black  silk 
robe,  very  similar  in  style  to  those  worn 
by  our  bishops  in  America.  This  he 
brought  out;  next,  from  a  flat  wooden  box, 
which  looked  very  old  and  black,  he  drew 
a  large,  white,  curly  wig.  The  boys 
looked  at  these  with  eager  interest.  "These 
are  like  what  are  worn  in  the  Houses  of 
Parliament,"  said  Charlie.  "What  a  funny 
idea  to  wear  such  a  dress. ' ' 

"I  think  it's  a  very  nice  idea,"  Rex 
answered,  quickly.  "I  assure  you  the 
judges  and  the  barristers  look  verj'  impos- 
ing in  their  robes  and  wigs." 

"I  expect  to  be  a  lawyer  one  of  these 
days;  wouldn't  I  astonish  the  American 
public  if  I  appeared  in  such  a  costume?" 
said  Charlie,  laughing.  "I  wonder  how 
I'd  look  in  it?" 


''His  Liidship:'  89 

"Try  it  on  and  see,"  suggested  Rex. 

•'Oh,  do,  do,  Charlie!  it'll  be  such  fun!" 
pleaded  Selwyn.  So,  nothing  loth,  Charlie 
slipped  on  the  long  black  silk  robe,  then 
Rex  and  Selwyn  arranged  the  thin  white 
muslin  bands  at  his  throat,  and  settled  the 
big  white  wig  on  his  head.  His  soft,  dark 
hair  was  brushed  well  off  his  face  so  that 
not  a  lock  escaped  from  beneath  the  wig, 
and  when  he  put  on  a  pair  of  Uncle  Geof's 
spectacles,  which  lay  conveniently  near, 
the  boys  were  convulsed  with  laughter  at 
his  appearance, 

"Good-day,  your  'ludship,'  "  said  Rex, 
with  a  mocking  bow;  w^ll  your  'ludship' 
hold  court  to-day?" 

"Yes,  let's  have  court  and  try  a  prisoner, " 
cried  Charlie,  who  began  to  feel  rather 
proud  of  his  unusual  appearance.  "You 
don't  mind,  do  you,  Rex?" 

"Why,  no!  I  think  it'll  be  no  end  of 
fun, ' '  was  the  merry  reply.  ' '  One  of  us  could 
be  the  prisoner,  and  the  other  the  barrister 
who  defends  him.  I'd  better  be  the  bar- 
rister, because  I  know  more  about  English 
law  than  Selwyn  does.  And  the  furni- 
ture'11  have  to  be  the  other  counsel  and  the 
gentlemen  of  the  jury.  Sit  over  there, 
Charlie,  near  that  railing,  and  we'll  make 
believe  it's  the  bar.  The  only  trouble  is 
the  barrister  will  have  no  gown  and  wig. 
Isn't  it  a  pity?" 


90  The  Children's  Portion. 

"Let's  take  the  table  cover,"  suggested 
Selwyn.  which  was  immediately  acted 
upon.  With  their  combined  efforts,  amid 
much  laughter,  it  was  draped  about  Rex's 
shoulders  in  a  fashion  very  nearly  approach- 
ing the  graceful  style  of  a  North  American 
Indian's  blanket.  A  Russian  bath  towel, 
which  they  also  found  in  the  closet,  was 
arranged  on  his  head  for  a  wig;  then  Sel- 
wyn was  placed  behind  a  chair  which  was 
supposed  to  be  the  prisoner's  box,  the 
judge  took  his  place,  and  court  opened. 

The  ceremony  differed  from  any  pre- 
viously known  in  judicial  experience,  and 
bursts  of  merry  laughter  disturbed  the  dig- 
nity of  the  learned  judge  and  counsel,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  prisoner. 

"The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  your  *lud- 
ship,'  "  began  the  counsel,  striving  to 
steady  his  voice,  "has  stolen  a — a — a — what 
shall  I  say  you  have  stolen?"  addressing 
Selwyn  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Tom,  Tom,  the  piper's  son, 

Stole  a  pig, 

And  away  did  run  ; 

The  pig  was  eat, 

And  Tom  was  beat, 

And  Tom  went  roaring 

Down  the  street, ' ' 

sang  the  prisoner,  in  a  vSweet  little  voice. 
"Your  'ludship, '  singing  is  contempt  of 


''His  Ludshipy  91 

court;  you  will  please  fine  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar,"  said  the  counsel,  regardless  of  the 
fact  that  the  prisoner  was  supposed  to  be 
his  client.  '\ 

"Silence,  both  of  you!"  cried  the  judge,  ' 
with   impartial    justice,   rapping  his   desk 
sharply  with  a  brass  paper-cutter.      ' '  Now, 
Mr.    Barrister,  state  the  case."     Then,   in 
an  aside,  "Wasn't  that  well  said?" 

"The  prisoner  has  stolen  a  pig,  your 
'ludship, '  "  said  the  counsel.  "He  admits 
it,  but  as  the  animal  has  been  eaten — " 

"And  the  prisoner  has  been  beaten," 
put  in  the  incorrigible  Selwyn. 

"And  the  prisoner  is  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land, ' '  continued  Rex,  ignoring  the 
irrelevant  remark,  "a  most  noble  and 
learned  American^ — ahem  ! — what  sentence, 
your  'ludship,'  shall  be  passed  upon  him?" 

"Hum,  hum!"  said  his  "ludship,"  rest- 
ing his  cheek  on  his  hand  meditatively, 
trying  to  assume  the  expression  which  he 
had  seen  sometimes  on  papa's  face  when  he 
and  Selwyn  were  under  consideration  for 
some  childish  offence. 

"The  court  waits,  your  'ludship,'  " 
remarked  the  counsel,  throwing  a  paper 
ball  at  the  judge. 

"Silence!"  again  shouted  the  judge,  rap- 
ping vigorously.  "The  sentence  is  this: 
the  prisoner  shall  stand  on  his  head  for  two 


92  The  Children's  Portio7t. 

seconds,  then  recite  a  piece  of  poetry,  and 
then — in  the  course  of  a  week — leave  the 
countr}'." 

"Your  'ludship'  will  please  sign  the  sen- 
tence and  we  will  submit  it  to  the  jury," 
suggested  the  learned  counsel,  who,  as  you 
will  perceive,  had  rather  peculiar  ideas 
about  court  formulas. 

"What  shall  I  sign?"  asked  his  "lud- 
ship." 

"Anything,"  said  Rex.  "Those  papers 
all  look  like  old  things — quick!  I  think 
I  hear  Jarvis  coming.  Sign  the  one  in 
your  hand.  Just  write  Geoffrey  Addison 
Barrington.      It's  only  for  fun,  you  know." 

He  caught  up  a  dingy -looking  document, 
opened  it,  and,  thrusting  the  pen  which 
was  in  his  " ludship' s"  hand  into  the  ink, 
he  and  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  crowded  up 
to  see  the  signature  which  Charlie  wrote 
as  he  had  been  told  to  do,  in  a  distinct 
schoolboy's  hand.  He  had  barely  crossed 
the  "t"  and  dotted  the  last  "i"  when  they 
heard  a  step,  and  scurrying  into  the  cup- 
board, they  saw  Jar^ds  come  in,  take  some- 
thing from  the  desk,  and  go  out  without  a 
glance  in  their  direction.  As  the  door 
closed  behind  him  it  opened  again  to  admit 
Justice  Barrington  and  Dr.  Kingsley. 

"Where  are  they?"  asked  Uncle  Geof, 
peering  about  the  dark  room  as  if  the  boys 


''His 

Ludshipy 

93 

might 

be 

hidden 

behind  some   table 

or 

chair. 

"Bovs," 

called  the   doctor, 

"where 

are 

you?" 

Then  they  walked  out — such  a  funny- 
looking  trio !  Rex' s  table-cover  robe  floated 
behind  him,  and  the  style  of  his  wig  was 
certainly  unique.  Selwyn  had  brought 
away  on  his  coat  a  goodly  share  of  the  dust 
of  the  cupboard.  His  brown  hair  stood  on 
end,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  shining  with 
excitement.  But  his  "ludship"  brought 
down  the  house.  He  came  forth  holding 
up  his  long  gown  on  each  side,  his  bands 
were  almost  under  his  left  ear,  his  wig  was 
on  one  side,  and  his  glasses  awry !  The 
contrast  between  his  magisterial  garb  and 
his  round  3"oung  face  and  merry  hazel  eyes 
was  too  much  for  the  gravity  of  the  two 
gentlemen.  With  a  glance  at  each  other 
they  burst  into  a  long,  hearty  laugh,  in 
which  the  boys  joined. 

A  little  later,  the  gown  and  wig  having 
been  restored  to  their  proper  places  by  the 
much  scandalized  Jarvis,  the  party 
returned  to  Portland  Square.  And  none 
of  the  boys  thought  of  mentioning  that 
Charlie  had  signed  a  document  with  his 
-uncle's  name,  which  he  had  not  read. 

A  few  days  after  this  Dr.  Kingsley  and 
his  family  left  England  for  the  Continent, 


94  The  Childi^eit' s  Portiojt. 

taking  Rex  with  them,  and  not  until  Sep- 
tember did  they  return  to  London  for  a 
short  visit  before  sailing  for  America. 

"I  have  an  account  to  settle  with  you, 
Master  Charlie,"  said  Uncle  Geoffrey, 
the  first  evening,  when  they  were  all 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  "Do  you 
recollect  a  certain  visit  to  my  chambers 
when  you  represented  a  judge  of  the 
Queen's  Bench?" 

Charlie,  Selwyn  and  Rex  looked  at  each 
other,  laughed,  and  nodded. 

"Do  you  remember  signing  a  paper?" 
asked  the  justice. 

"Yes,"  said  Charlie;  "but  it  was  an  old 
dingy-looking  one — we  didn't  read  it — I 
just  signed  it  for  fun." 

"I  told  Charlie  to  put  your  name  to  it," 
broke  in  Rex,  eagerly.  "Is  anything 
wrong,  papa?" 

"I  will  tell  you  the  story  and  you  shall 
judge  for  yourself , "  said  the  justice,  smil- 
ing. "As  it  happened,  the  paper  Charlie 
signed  was  not  an  old  one.  It  was  in  ref- 
erence to  removing  an  orphan  boy  from  one 
guardianship  to  another.  He  is  about  as 
old  as  Charlie,  and  it  appears  that  the  first 
guardian  ill-treated  the  little  fellow  under 
the  guise  of  kindness,  being  only  intent  on 
gain.  When  the  paper  which  'his  lud- 
ship,'  "  with  a  deep  bow  in  Charlie's  direc- 


''His  Liidship:'  95 

tioii — "signed  arrived,  the  boy  was  de- 
lighted, and  he  thoroughly  enjoys  the 
excellent  home  he  is  now  in.  Imagine  my 
surprise  when  a  letter  reached  me  thanking 
me  for  my  wise  decision.  I  could  not 
understand  it,  as  I  thought  I  knew  the 
paper  in  reference  to  it  was  lying  on  my 
desk  waiting  its  turn.  You  may  well 
laugh,  you  young  rogues. ' ' 

"How  did  you  find  out?' '  asked  Charlie, 
divided  between  contrition  and  a  desire  to 
enjoy  the  joke. 

"Jarvis  and  I  traced  it  out.  I  paid  a 
visit  to  Wales  and  put  the  signature  of  the 
original  Barrington  to  the  document.  The 
present  guardian  of  the  boy  declares  the 
little  fellow's  disposition  would  have  been 
completely  ruined  if  he  had  remained  much 
longer  under  his  former  guardian's  care, 
and  I  am  afraid,  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
the  law,  which  moves  slowly,  it  w^ould 
have  been  some  time  before  the  matter 
could  have  been  attended  to.  So  you  have 
done  that  much  good  to  a  fellow-boy. 
Only  be  careful  in  the  future,  dear  lad,  to 
read  a  document  before  signing  it,  for  care- 
lessness in  that  direction  might  not  always 
end  as  well  as  it  has  in  this  instance. 
What  puzzles  me  is  how  3'ou  came  to  take 
that  particular  paper  when  so  many  others 
lay  about;  it  was  but  one  chance  in  a. 
million.' ' 


96  The  Childreii's  Po7'tio?t. 

"  '  A  chance — the  eternal  God  that  chance 
did  guide, '  ' '  quoted  Dr.  Kingsley,  in  his 
quiet,  gentle  voice. 

"What  lots  we'll  have  to  tell  Ned}  O 
boys,  do  let's  cheer!"  cried  Selwyn, 
eagerly,  springing  to  his  feet.  "Here  goes 
— three  cheers  for  Uncle  Geof  and  dear 
papa,  and  a  big,  big  'tiger'  for  his  'lud- 
ship!'  " 


THK  PIOUS  CONSTANCE. 

Once  upon  a  time  the  Emperor  of  Rome 
had  a  beautiful  daughter  named  Constance. 
She  was  so  fair  to  look  on,  that  far  and 
wide,  she  was  spoken  of  as  "the  beautiful 
princess. ' '  But,  better  than  that,  she  was 
so  good  and  vSO  saintly  that  everybody  in 
her  father's  dominions  loved  her,  and  often 
they  forgot  to  call  her  "the  beautiful  prin- 
cess, ' '  but  called  her  instead,  ' '  Constance 
the  good. ' ' 

All  the  merchants  who  came  thither  to 
buy  and  sell  goods,  carried  away  to  other 
countries  accounts  of  Constance,  her  beauty, 
and  her  holiness.  One  day  there  came  to 
Rome  some  merchants  from  Syria,  with 
shiploads  of  cloths  of  gold,  and  satins  rich 
in  hue,  and  all  kinds  of  spicery,  which 
they  would  sell  in  the  Roman  markets. 
While  they  abode  here,  the  fame  of  Con- 
stance came  to  their  ears,  and  they  some- 
times saw  her  lovely  face  as  she  went 
about  the  city  among  the  poor  and  suffer- 
ing, and  were  so  pleased  with  the  sight 
that  the}'  could  talk  of  nothing  else  when 
they  returned  home ;  so  that,  after  a  while, 
their  reports  came  to  the  ear  of  the  Soldan 
©f  Syria,  their  ruler,  and  he  sent  to  the 
97 


98  The  Childreii^s  Portion. 

merchants  to  hear  from  their  lips  all  about 
the  fair  Roman  maiden. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  this  stor}^,  this  Sol- 
dan  began  secretly  to  love  the  fair  picture 
which  his  fancy  painted  of  the  good  Con- 
stance, and  he  shut  himself  up  to  think  of 
her,  and  to  study  how  he  could  gain  her 
for  his  own. 

At  length  he  sent  to  all  his  wise  men, 
and  called  them  together  in  council. 

"You  have  heard, ' '  he  said  to  them,  "of 
the  beauty  and  goodness  of  the  Roman 
princess.  I  desire  her  for  my  wife.  So 
cast  about  quickly  for  some  way  by  w^hich 
I  may  wnn  her. ' ' 

Then  all  the  wise  men  w^ere  horrified; 
hecause  Constance  was  a  Christian,  while 
the  Syrians  believed  in  Mohammed  as  their 
sacred  prophet.  One  wise  man  thought 
the  Soldan  had  been  bewitched  by  some 
fatal  love-charm  brought  from  Rome. 
Another  explained  that  some  of  the  stars 
in  the  heavens  were  out  of  place,  and  had 
been  making  great  mischief  among  the 
planets  which  governed  the  life  of  the  Sol- 
dan.  One  had  one  explanation  and  one 
another,  but  to  all  the  Soldan  only 
answered, — "All  these  words  avail  nothing. 
I  shall  die  if  I  may  not  have  Constance  for 
my  wife. ' ' 

One  of  the  wise  men  then  said  plainly, — 


The  Pious  Coiistance.  99 

"But  the  Emperor  of  Rome  will  not  give 
his  daughter  to  an^^  but  a  Christian. ' ' 

When  the  Soldan  heard  that  he  cried 
joyfully:  "O,  if  that  is  all,  I  will  straight- 
way turn  Christian,  and  all  my  kingdom 
with  me. ' ' 

So  they  sent  an  ambassador  to  the  Em- 
peror to  know  if  he  would  give  his  daugh- 
ter to  the  Soldan  of  Syria,  if  he  and  all  his 
people  would  turn  Christian.  And  the 
Emperor,  w^ho  was  very  devout,  and 
thought  he  ought  to  use  all  means  to  spread 
his  religion,  answered  that  he  would. 

So  poor  little  Constance,  like  a  white 
lamb  chosen  for  a  sacrifice,  was  made 
ready  to  go  to  Syria.  A  fine  ship  was 
prepared,  and  w4th  a  treasure  for  her 
dowry,  beautiful  clothes,  and  hosts  of 
attendants,  she  was  put  on  board. 

She  herself  w^as  pale  with  grief  and  weep- 
ing at  parting  from  her  home  and  her  own 
dear  mother.  But  she  was  so  pious  and 
devoted  that  she  was  willing  to  go  if  it 
would  make  Syria  a  good  Christian  land. 
So,  as  cheerfully  as  she  could,  she  set  sail. 

Now  the  Soldan  had  a  very  wicked 
mother,  who  was  all  the  time  angry  in  her 
heart  that  the  Soldan  had  become  a  Chris- 
tian. Before  Constance  arrived  in  Syria 
she  called  together  all  the  lords  in  the  king- 
dom whom  she  knew  to  be  friendly  to  him. 


lOO  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

She  told  them  of  a  plot  she  had  made  to 
kill  the  Soldan  and  all  those  who  changed 
their  religion  with  him,  as  soon  as  the  bride 
had  come.  They  all  agreed  to  this  dread- 
ful plot,  and  then  the  old  Soldaness  went 
smiling  and  bland,  to  the  Soldan 's  palace. 

"My  dear  son,"  she  said,  "at  last  I  am 
resolved  to  become  a  Christian ;  I  am  sur- 
prised I  have  been  blind  so  long  to  the 
beauty  of  this  new  faith.  And,  in  token 
of  our  agreement  about  it,  I  pray  3'ou  will 
honor  me  by  attending  with  your  bride  at 
a  great  feast  which  I  shall  make  for  you. ' ' 

The  Soldan  was  overjoyed  to  see  his 
mother  so  amiable.  He  knelt  at  her  feet 
and  kissed  her  hand,  saying, — "Now,  my 
dear  mother,  my  happiness  is  full,  since 
you  are  reconciled  to  this  marriage.  And 
Constance  and  I  will  gladly  come  to  your 
feast. ' ' 

Then  the  hideous  old  hag  went  away, 
nodding  and  mumbling, — "Aha!  Mistress 
Constance,  white  as  they  call  3^ou,  yoii 
shall  be  dyed  so  red  that  all  the  water  in 
your  church  font  shall  not  wash  you  clean, 
again !' ' 

Constance  came  soon  after,  and  there  was . 
great  feasting  and  merry-making,  and  the 
Soldan  was  very  happy. 

Then  the  Soldaness  gave  her  great  feast, 
and  while  they  sat  at  the  table,  her  soldiers 


The  Pious  Constance,  lor 

came  in  and  killed  the  vSoldan  and  all  the 
lords  who  were  friendly  to  him,  and 
vslaughtered  so  many  that  the  banquet  hall 
swam  ankle  deep  in  blood. 

But  they  did  not  slay  Constance.  Instead, 
they  bore  her  to  the  sea  and  put  her  on 
board  her  ship  all  alone,  with  provisions 
for  a  long  journey,  and  then  set  her  adrift 
on  the  wide  waters. 

So  she  sailed  on,  drifting  past  many 
vshores,  out  into  the  limitless  ocean,  borne 
on  by  the  billows,  seeing  the  day  dawn  and 
the  sun  set,  and  never  meeting  living  crea- 
ture. All  alone  on  a  wide  ocean !  drifting 
down  into  soft  southern  seas  where  the 
warm  winds  alwa^^s  blew,  then  driving  up 
into  frozen  waters  where  green,  glittering 
icebergs  sailed  solemnly  past  the  ship,  so 
near,  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  crush  tha 
frail  bark  to  atoms. 

So  for  three  long  years,  day  and  night, 
winter  and  summer,  this  lonely  ship  went 
on,  till  at  length  the  winds  cast  it  on  the 
English  shores. 

As  soon  as  the  ship  stranded,  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  town,  with  his  wife  and  a 
great  crowd  of  people,  came  to  see  this 
strange  vessel.  They  were  all  charmed 
with  the  sweet  face  of  Constance,  and 
Dame  Hennegilde,  the  governor's  wife,  on 
the  instant  loved  her  as  her  life.     So  this 


I02  The  Children''s  Portion. 

noble  couple  took  her  home  and  made 
much  of  her.  But  Constance  was  so  mazed 
with  the  peril  she  had  passed  that  she 
could  scarcely  remember  who  she  was  or 
whence  vshe  came,  and  could  answer  naught 
to  all  their  questionings. 

While  she  lived  with  the  good  Henne- 
gilde,  a  young  knight  began  to  love  her, 
and  sued  for  her  love  in  return.  But  he 
was  so  wicked  that  Constance  would  not 
heed  him.  This  made  him  very  angry. 
He  swore  in  his  heart  that  he  would  have 
revenge.  He  waited  until  one  night  when 
the  governor  was  absent,  and  going  into 
the  room  where  Dame  Hennegilde  lay,  with 
Constance  sleeping  in  the  same  chamber, 
this  wicked  knight  killed  the  good  lady. 
Then  he  put  the  dripping  knife  into  the 
hand  of  Constance,  and  smeared  her  face 
and  clothes  with  blood,  that  it  might  appear 
she  had  done  the  deed. 

When  the  governor  returned  and  saw 
this  dreadful  sight,  he  knew  not  what  to 
think.  Yet,  even  then,  he  could  not 
believe  Constance  was  guilty.  He  carried 
Tier  before  the  king  to  be  judged.  This 
king,  Alia,  was  very  tender  and  good,  and 
when  he  saw  Constance  standing  in  the 
midst  of  the  people,  with  her  frightened 
eyes  looking  appealing  from  one  to  another 
like  a  wounded  deer  who  is  chased  to  its 
death,  his  heart  was  moved  with  pity. 


The  Pious  Constance.  103 

The  governor  and  all  his  people  told  how 
Constance  had  loved  the  murdered  lady, 
and  what  holy  words  she  had  taught.  All 
except  the  real  murderer,  who  kept  declar- 
ing she  was  the  guilty  one,  believed  her 
innocent. 

The  king  asked  her,  "Have  you  any 
champion  who  could  fight  for  you?' ' 

At  this  Constance,  falling  on  her  knees, 
cried  out  that  she  had  no  champion  but 
God,  and  prayed  that  He  would  defend  her 
innocence. 

"Now,"  cried  the  king,  "bring  the  holy 
book  which  was  brought  from  Brittany  by 
my  fathers,  and  let  the  knight  swear  upon 
it  that  the  maiden  is  guilty. ' ' 

So  they  brought  the  book  of  the  Gospels, 
and  the  knight  kissed  it,  but  as  soon  as  he 
began  to  take  the  oath  he  was  felled  down 
as  by  a  terrible  blow,  and  his  neck  was 
found  broken  and  his  eyes  burst  from  his 
head.  Before  them  all,  in  great  agony, 
he  died,  confessing  his  guilt  and  the  inno- 
cence of  Constance. 

King  Alia  had  been  much  moved  by  the 
beauty  of  Constance  and  her  innocent  looks, 
and  now  she  was  proved  guiltless,  all 
his  heart  went  out  to  her.  And  when  he 
asked  her  to  become  his  queen  she  gladly 
consented,  for  she  loved  him  because  he 
had   pitied   and  helped   her.     They    were 


I04  The  Children's  Portion. 

soon  married  amidst  the  great  rejoicing  of 
the  people,  and  the  king  and  all  the  land 
became  converted  to  the  Christian  faith. 

This  king  also  had  a  mother,  named 
Donegilde,  an  old  heatheness,  no  less  cruel 
than  the  mother  of  the  Soldan.  She  hated 
Constance  because  she  had  been  made  queen 
though  for  fear  of  her  son's  wrath  she 
dared  not  molest  her. 

After  his  honeymoon,  King  Alia  went 
northward  to  do  battle  with  the  Scots,  who 
were  hisfoemen,  leaving  his  wife  in  charge 
of  a  bishop  and  the  good  governor,  the  hus- 
band of  the  murdered  Hennegilde.  While 
he  was  absent  heaven  sent  Constance  a 
beautiful  little  son,  whom  she  named 
Maurice. 

As  soon  as  the  babe  w^as  born,  the  gov- 
ernor sent  a  messenger  to  the  king  with  a 
letter  telling  him  of  his  good  fortune. 
Now  it  happened  this  messenger  was  a 
courtier,  who  wished  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  all  the  royal  family.  So,  as  soon  as 
he  got  the  letter,  he  went  to  Donegilde,  the 
king's  mother,  and  asked  her  if  she  had 
any  message  to  send  her  son. 

Donegilde  was  very  courteous  and 
begged  him  to  wait  till  next  morning, 
while  she  got  her  message  ready.  She 
plied  the  man  with  wine  and  strong  liquor 
till    evening,  when  he   slept   so   fast   that 


The  Pious  Constance.  105 

nothing  could  wake  him.  While  he  was 
asleep  she  opened  his  letters  and  read  all 
that  the  governor  had  written.  Then  this 
wicked  old  woman  wrote  to  Alia  that  his 
wife  Constance  was  a  witch  who  had 
bewitched  him  and  all  his  people,  but  now 
her  true  character  became  plain,  and  she 
had  given  birth  to  a  horrible,  fiend-like 
creature,  who,  she  said,  was  his  son.  This 
she  put  in  place  of  the  governor's 
letter,  and  dispatched  the  messenger  at 
dawn. 

King  Alia  was  nearly  heart-broken  when 
he  read  these  bad  tidings,  but  he  wrote 
back  to  wait  all  things  till  he  returned,  and 
to  harm  neither  Constance  nor  her  son. 
Back  rode  the  messenger  to  Donegilde  once 
again.  She  played  her  tricks  over  again 
and  got  him  sound  asleep.  Then  she  took 
the  king's  letter  and  put  one  in  its  place 
commanding  the  governor  to  put  Constance 
and  her  child  aboard  the  ship  in  which  she 
came  to  these  shores  and  set  her  afloat. 

The  good  governor  could  hardly  believe 
his  eyes  when  he  read  these  orders,  and  the 
tears  ran  over  his  cheeks  for  grief.  But 
he  dared  not  disobey  what  he  supposed  was 
the  command  of  his  king  and  master,  so  he 
made  the  vessel  ready  and  went  and  told 
Constance  what  he  must  do. 

She,   poor  soul,  was  almost  struck  dumb 


io6  The  Children's  Portion. 

with  grief.  Then,  kneeling  before  the 
governor,  she  cried,  with  many  tears, — 

'*If  I  must  go  again  on  the  cruel  seas,  at 
least  this  poor  little  innocent,  who  has  done 
no  evil,  may  be  spared.  Keep  my  poor 
baby  till  his  father  comes  back,  and  per- 
chance he  will  take  pity  on  him. ' ' 

But  the  governor  dared  not  consent,  and 
Constance  must  go  to  the  ship,  carrying  her 
babe  in  her  arms.  Through  the  street  she 
walked,  the  people  following  her  with  tears, 
she  with  eyes  fixed  on  heaven  and  the 
infant  sobbing  on  her  bosom.  Thus  she 
went  on  board  ship  and  drifted  away  again. 

Now,  for  another  season,  she  went  about 
at  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves,  in  icy 
waters  where  winds  whistled  through  the 
frozen  rigging,  and  down  into  tropical  seas 
where  she  lay  becalmed  for  months  in  the 
glassy  water.  Then  fresh  breezes  would 
spring  up  and  drive  her  this  way  or  that, 
as  they  listed.  But  this  time  she  had  her 
babe  for  comfort,  and  he  grew  to  be  a  child 
near  five  years  old  before  she  was  rescued. 
And  this  is  the  way  it  happened.  When 
the  Kmperor  of  Rome  heard  of  the  deeds 
the  cruel  Soldaness  had  done,  and  how  his 
daughter's  husband  had  been  slain,  he  sent 
an  army  to  Syria,  and  all  these  years  they 
had  besieged  the  royal  city  till  it  was 
burnt  and  destroyed.     Now  the  fleet,  return- 


The  Pious  Constance.  107 

ing  to  Rome,  met  the  ship  in  which  Con- 
stance sailed,  and  they  fetched  her  and  her 
child  to  her  native  country.  The  senator 
who  commanded  the  fleet  was  her  uncle, 
but  he  knew  her  not,  and  she  did  not  make 
herself  known.  He  took  her  into  his  own 
house,  and  her  aunt,  the  senator's  wife, 
loved  her  greatly,  never  guessing  she  was 
her  own  princess  and  kinswoman. 

When  King  Alia  got  back  from  his  war 
with  the  Scots  and  heard  how  Constance 
had  been  sent  awa}^  he  was  very  angry ; 
but  when  he  questioned  and  found  the  letter 
which  had  been  sent  him  was  false,  and 
that  Constance  had  borne  him  a  beautiful 
bo}^,  he  knew  not  what  to  think.  When 
the  governor  showed  him  the  letter  with 
his  own  seal  w^hich  directed  that  his  wife 
and  child  should  be  sent  away,  he  knew 
there  was  some  hidden  wickedness  in  all 
this.  He  forced  the  messenger  to  tell 
where  he  had  carried  the  letters,  and  he 
confessed  he  had  slept  two  nights  at  the 
castle  of  Donegilde. 

So  it  all  came  out,  and  the  king,  in  a  pas- 
sion of  rage,  slew  his  mother,  and  then  shut 
himself  up  in  his  castle  to  give  way  to  grief. 

After  a  time  he  began  to  repent  his  deed, 
because  he  remembered  it  was  contrary  to 
the  gentle  teachings  of  the  faith  Constance 
had    taught    him.     In    his    penitence    he 


io8  The  Children's  Portion, 

resolved  to  go  to  Rome  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
atone  for  his  sin.  So  in  his  pilgrim  dress 
he  set  out  for  the  great  empire. 

Now  when  it  was  heard  in  Rome  that 
the  great  Alia  from  the  North-land  had 
come  thither  on  a  Christian  pilgrimage,  all 
the  noble  Romans  vied  to  do  him  honor. 
Among  others,  the  senator  with  whom 
Constance  abode  invited  him  to  a  great 
banquet  which  he  made  for  him.  While 
Alia  sat  at  this  feast,  his  eyes  w^ere  con- 
stantly fixed  upon  a  beautiful  boy,  one  of 
the  senator's  pages,  who  stood  near  and 
filled  their  goblets  with  wine.  At  length 
he  said  to  his  host, — ''Pray  tell  me,  whence 
came  the  boy  who  serves  5^ou?  Who  is  he, 
and  do  his  father  and  mother  live  in  the 
country?' ' 

"A  mother  he  has,"  answered  the  sen- 
ator: **so  holy  a  woman  never  was  seen. 
But  if  he  has  a  father  I  cannot  tell  you. ' ' 
Then  he  w^ent  on  and  told  the  king  of  Con- 
stance, and  how  she  was  found  with  this 
boy,  her  child,  on  the  pathless  sea. 

Alia  was  overjoyed  in  his  heart,  for  he 
knew  then  that  this  child  was  his  own  son. 

Immediately  they  sent  for  Constance  to 
come  thither.  As  soon  as  she  saw  her  hus- 
band, she  uttered  a  cry  and  fell  into  a  deep 
swoon.  When  she  was  recovered  she 
looked  reproachfully  at  Alia,  for  she  sup- 


The  Pious  Constance.  109 

posed  it  was  by  his  order  she  had  been  so 
ruthlessly  sent  from  his  kingdom.  But 
when,  with  many  tears  of  pity  for  her  mis- 
fortunes, King  Alia  told  her  how  he  had 
grieved  for  her,  and  how  long  he  had  suf- 
fered thus,  she  was  convinced. 

Then  they  embraced  each  other,  and 
were  so  happy  that  no  other  happiness, 
except  that  of  heavenly  spirits,  could  ever 
equal  theirs. 

After  this,  she  made  herself  knbwn  to  the 
Emperor,  her  father,  who  had  great  rejoic- 
ing over  his  long-lost  daughter,  whom  he 
had  thought  dead.  For  many  weeks  Rome 
was  full  of  feasting,  and  merry-making, 
and  happiness.  These  being  over,  King 
Alia,  with  his  dear  wife,  returned  to  his 
kingdom  of  England,  where  they  lived  in 
great  happiness  all  the  rest  of  their  days. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  REVENGE. 

BY  AI.OE. 

Painfully  toiled  the  camels  over  the  burn- 
ing sands  of  Arabia.  Weary  and  thirsty 
were  they,  for  they  had  not  for  days  had 
herbage  to  crop,  or  water  to  drink,  as  they 
trod,  mile  after  mile,  the  barren  waste, 
where  the  sands  glowed  red  like  a  fiery  sea. 
And  wea!-y  were  the  riders,  exhausted  with 
toil  and  heat,  for  they  dared  not  stop  to 
rest.  The  water  which  they  carried  with 
them  was  almost  spent ;  some  of  the  skins 
which  had  held  it  flapped  empty  against 
the  sides  of  the  camels,  and  too  well  the 
travelers  knew  that  if  they  loitered  on  their 
way,  all  must  perish  of  thirst. 

Amongst  the  travelers  in  that  caravan 
was  a  Persian,  Sadi  by  name,  a  tall,  strong 
man,  with  black  beard,  and  fierce,  dark  eye. 
He  urged  his  tired  camel  to  the  side  of 
that  of  the  foremost  Arab,  the  leader  and 
guide  of  the  rest,  and  after  pointing  fiercely 
toward  one  of  the  travelers  a  little  behind 
him,  thus  he  spake: 

"Dost  thou  know  that  yon  Syrian  Yusef 
is  a  dog  of  a  Christian,  a  kaffir?' '  (Kaffir 
— unbeliever — is  a  name  of  contempt  given 
by  Moslems,  the  followers  of  the  false 
Prophet,  to  those  who  worship  our  L,ord.) 
no 


The  Doctor's  Revenge.  1 1  r 

"I  know  that  the  hakeem  (doctor)  never 
calls  on  the  name  of  the  Prophet, ' '  was 
the  stern  reply. 

"Dost  thou  know, ' '  continued  Sadi,  ''that 
Yusef  rides  the  best  camel  in  the  caravan, 
and  has  the  fullest  water-skin,  and  has 
shawls  and  merchandise  with  him?" 

The  leader  cast  a  covetous  glance  toward 
the  poor  S^-rian  traveler,  who  w^as  generally 
called  the  hakeem  because  of  the  medicines 
which  he  gave,  and  the  many  cures  which 
he  wrought. 

"He  has  no  friends  here,"  said  the 
wicked  Sadi;  "if  he  were  cast  from  his 
camel  and  left  here  to  die,  there  would  be 
none  to  inquire  after  his  fate;  for  who 
cares  what  becomes  of  a  dog  of  a  kaffir?" 

I  will  not  further  repeat  the  cruel  coun- 
sels of  this  bad  man,  but  I  will  give  the 
reason  for  the  deadly  hatred  which  he  bore 
toward  the  poor  hakeem.  Yusef  had 
defended  the  cause  of  a  widow  whom  Sadi 
had  tried  to  defraud ;  and  Sadi's  dishonesty 
being  found  out,  he  had  been  punished 
with  stripes,  which  he  had  but  too  well 
deserved.  Therefore  did  he  seek  to  ruin 
the  man  who  had  brought  just  punishment 
on  him,  therefore  he  resolved  to  destroy 
Yusef  by  inducing  his  Arab  comrades  to 
leave  him  to  die  in  the  desert. 

Sadi  had,  alas!  little  difficulty    in    per- 


112  The  Childr ell's  Portio7t, 

suading  the  Arabs  that  it  was  no  great  sin 
to  rob  and  desert  a  Christian.  Just  as  the 
fiery  sun  was  sinking  over  the  sands, 
Yusef,  who  was  suspecting  treachery,  but 
knew  not  how  to  escape  from  it,  was  rudely 
dragged  off  his  camel,  stripped  of  the  best 
part  of  his  clothes,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
earnest  entreaties,  left  to  die  in  the  terrible 
waste.  It  would  have  been  less  cruel  to 
slay  him  at  once. 

**01i!  leave  me  at  least  water — water!" 
exclaimed  the  poor  victim  of  malice  and 
hatred. 

''We'll  leave  you  nothing  but  your  own 
worthless  drugs,  hakeem ! — take  that ! ' ' 
cried  Sadi,  as  he  flung  at  Yusef 's  head  a 
tin  case  containing  a  few  of  his  medicines. 

Then  bending  down  from  Yusef 's  camel, 
which  he  himself  had  mounted,  Sadi  hissed 
out  between  his  clenched  teeth,  ** Thou  hast 
wronged  me — I  have  repaid  thee,  Chris- 
tian!  this  is  a  Moslem's  revenge!" 

They  had  gone,  the  last  camel  had  disap- 
peared from  the  view  of  Yusef;  darkness 
was  falling  around,  and  he  remained  to 
suffer  alone,  to  die  alone,  amidst  those 
scorching  sands !  The  Syrian's  first  feel- 
ing was  that  of  despair,  as  he  stood  gazing 
in  the  direction  of  the  caravan  which  he 
could  no  longer  see.  Then  Yusef  lifted  up 
his  eyes  to  the  sky  above  him:  in  its  now 


The  Doctor'' s  Revenge.  113 

darkened  expanse  shone  the  calm  evening 
star,  like  a  drop  of  pure  light. 

Yusef,  in  thinking  over  his  situation,  felt 
thankful  that  he  had  not  been  deprived  of 
his  camel  in  an  earlier  part  of  his  journey, 
when  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  desert. 
He  hoped  that  he  was  not  very  far  from  its 
border,  and  resolved,  guided  by  the  stars, 
to  walk  as  far  as  his  strength  would  per- 
mit, in  the  faint  hope  of  reaching  a  well, 
and  the  habitations  of  men.  It  was  a  great 
relief  to  him  that  the  burning  glare  of  day 
was  over:  had  the  sun  been  still  blazing 
over  his  head,  he  must  soon  have  sunk  and 
fainted  by  the  w^ay.  Yusef  picked  up  the 
small  case  of  medicines  which  Sadi  in  mock- 
ery had  flung  at  him;  he  doubted  whether 
to  burden  himself  w^ith  it,  yet  was  unwill- 
ing to  leave  it  behind.  '*I  am  not  likely 
to  live  to  make  use  of  this,  and  3-et — who 
knows?"  said  Yusef  to  himself,  as,  with 
the  case  in  his  hand,  he  painfully  struggled 
on  over  the  wide  expanse  of  dreary  desert. 
"I  will  make  w^hat  efforts  I  can  to  preserve 
the  life  which  God  has  given." 

Struggling  against  extreme  exhaustion, 
his  limbs  almost  sinking  under  his  w^eight, 
Yusef  pressed  on  his  wa}^  till  a  glownng  red 
line  in  the  east  showed  where  the  blazing  sun 
would  soon  rise.  What  was  his  eager  hope 
and  joy  on  seeing  that  red  line  broken  bv 


114  The  Children's  Portion. 

some  dark  pointed  objects  that  appeared  to 
rise  out  of  the  sand.  New  strength  seemed 
given  to  the  weary  man,  for  now  his  ear 
caught  the  welcome  sound  of  the  bark  of  a 
dog,  and  then  the  bleating  of  sheep. 

"God  be  praised!"  exclaimed  Yusef,  **I 
am  near  the  abodes  of  men  ! ' ' 

Exerting  all  his  powers,  the  Syrian 
made  one  great  effort  to  reach  the  black 
tents  which  he  now  saw  distinctly  in  broad 
daylight,  and  which  he  knew  must  belong 
to  some  tribe  of  wandering  Bedouin  Arabs: 
he  tottered  on  for  a  hundred  yards,  and 
then  sank  exhausted  on  the  sand. 

But  the  Bedouins  had  seen  the  poor,  sol- 
itary stranger,  and  as  hospitality  is  one  of 
their  leading  virtues,  some  of  these  wild 
sons  of  the  desert  now  hastened  toward 
Yusef.  They  raised  him,  they  held  to  his 
parched  lips  a  most  delicious  draught  of 
rich  camel's  milk.  The  Syrian  felt  as  if  he 
were  drinking  in  new  life,  and  was  so  much 
revived  by  what  he  had  taken,  that  he  was 
able  to  accompany  his  preservers  to  the 
black  goat's-hair  tent  of  their  Sheik  or 
chief,  an  elderly  man  of  noble  aspect,  who 
welcomed  the  stranger  kindly. 

Yusef  had  not  been  long  in  that  tent 
before  he  found  that  he  had  not  only  been 
guided  to  a  place  of  safety,  but  to  the  very 
place  where  his  presence  was  needed.     The 


The  Doctor^  s  Revenge.  115 

sound  of  low  moans  made  him  turn  his  eyes 
toward  a  dark  corner  of  the  tent.  There 
lay  the  only  son  of  the  Sheik,  dangerously 
ill,  and,  as  the  Bedouins  believed,  dying. 
Already  all  their  rough,  simple  remedies 
had  been  tried  on  the  y  nth,  but  tried  in 
vain.  With  stern  grief  the  Sheik  listened 
to  the  moans  of  pain  that  burst  from  the 
suffering  lad  and  wrung  the  heart  of  the 
father. 

The  Syrian  asked  leave  to  examine  the 
youth,  and  was  soon  at  his  side.  Yusef 
very  soon  perceived  that  the  Bedouin's  case 
was  not  hopeless, — that  God's  blessing  on 
the  hakeem's  skill  might  in  a  few  days 
effect  a  wonderful  change.  He  offered  to 
try  what  his  art  and  medicines  could  do. 
The  Sheik  caught  at  the  last  hope  held  out 
to  him  of  preserving  the  life  of  his  son. 
The  Bedouins  gathered  round,  and 
watched  with  keen  interest  the  measures 
which  were  at  once  taken  by  the  stranger 
hakeem  to  effect  the  cure  of  the  lad. 

Yusef 's  success  was  beyond  his  hopes. 
The  medicine  which  he  gave  afforded 
speedy  relief  from  pain,  andw4thin  an  hour 
the  young  Bedouin  had  sunk  into  a  deep 
and  refreshing  sleep.  His  slumber  lasted 
long,  and  he  awoke  quite  free  from  fever, 
though  of  course  some  days  elapsed  before 
his  strength  was  fully  restored. 


ii6  The  Childroi's  Portion. 

Great  was  the  gratitude  of  Azim,  the 
Sheik,  for  the  cure  of  his  only  son;  and 
great  was  the  admiration  of  the  simple 
Bedouins  for  the  skill  of  the  wondrous 
hakeem.  Yusef  sopn  had  plenty  of  patients. 
The  sons  of  the  \  iesert  now  looked  upon 
the  poor  deserted  stranger  as  one  sent  to 
them  by  heaven;  and  Yusef  himself  felt 
that  his  own  plans  had  been  defeated,  his 
own  course  changed  by  wisdom  and  love. 
He  had  intended,  as  a  medical  missionary, 
to  fix  his  abode  in  some  Arabian  town :  he 
had  been  directed  instead  to  the  tents  of 
the  Bedouin  Arabs.  The  wild  tribe  soon 
learned  to  reverence  and  love  him,  and  lis- 
ten to  his  words.  Azim  supplied  him  with 
a  tent,  a  horse,  a  rich  striped  mantle,  and 
all  that  the  Syrian's  wants  required.  Yusef 
found  that  he  could  be  happy  as  well  as 
useful  in  his  wild  desert  home. 

One  day,  after  months  had  elapsed,  Yusef 
rode  forth  with  Azim  and  two  of  his  Be- 
douins, to  visit  a  distant  encampment  of 
part  of  the  tribe.  They  carried  with  them 
spear  and  gun,  water,  and  a  small  supply  of 
provisions.  The  party  had  not  proceeded 
far  when  Azim  pointed  to  a  train  of  camels 
that  were  disappearing  in  the  distance. 
"Yonder  go  pilgrims  to  Mecca,"  he  said: 
*'long  and  weary  is  the  journey  before 
them;  the    path  which  they  take  will   be 


The  Doctor's  Revenge.  117 

marked  by  the  bones  of  camels  that  fall  and 
perish  by  the  way. ' ' 

*'Methinks  by  yon  sand-mound,"  ob- 
served Yusef,  "I  see  an  object  that  looks  at 
this  distance  like  a  pilgrim  stretched  on 
the  waste." 

**Some  traveler  may  have  fallen  sick," 
said  the  Sheik,  ''and  be  left  on  the  sand  to 
die." 

The  words  made  Yusef  at  once  set  spurs 
to  his  horse:  having  himself  so  narrowly 
escaped  a  dreadful  death  in  the  desert,  he 
naturally  felt  strong  pity  for  any  one  in 
danger  of  meeting  so  terrible  a  fate.  Azim 
galloped  after  Yusef,  and  having  the  fleeter 
horse  outstripped  him,  as  they  approached 
the  spot  on  which  lay  stretched  the  form  of 
a  man,  apparently  dead. 

As  soon  as  Azim  reached  the  pilgrim  he 
sprang  from  his  horse,  laid  his  gun  down 
on  the  sand,  and,  taking  a  skin-bottle  of 
v/ater  which  hung  at  his  saddle  bow,  pro- 
ceeded to  pour  some  down  the  throat  of  the 
man,    who   gave    signs   of   returning   life. 

Yusef  almost  instantly  joined  him;  but 
what  were  the  feelings  of  the  Syrian  when 
in  the  pale,  wasted  features  of  the  sufferer 
before  him  he  recognized  those  of  Sadi,  his 
deadly,  merciless  foe ! 

*%et  me  hold  the  skin-bottle,  Sheik!" 
exclaimed  Yusef;   ''let  the  draught  of  cold 


ii8  TJie  Childreji^s  Portion, 

water  be  from  my  hand.'*  The  Syrian 
remembered  the  command,  **If  thine  enemy 
thirst,  give  him  drink." 

Sadi  was  too  ill  to  be  conscious  of  any- 
thing passing  around  him;  but  he  drank 
with  feverish  eagerness,  as  if  his  thirst 
could  never  be  slaked. 

"How  shall  we  bear  him  hence?"  said 
the  Sheik;  **my  journey  cannot  be  de- 
laj'Cd." 

**Go  on  thy  journey,  O  Sheik,"  replied 
Yusef;  **I  will  return  to  the  tents  with  this 
man,  if  thou  but  help  me  to  place  him  on 
my  horse.  He  shall  share  my  tent  and  my 
cup, — he  shall  be  to  me  as  a  brother." 

"Dost  thou  know  him?"  inquired  the 
Sheik. 

"Ay,  well  I  know  him, "  the  Syrian  re- 
plied. 

Sadi  was  gently  placed  on  the  horse,  for 
it  would  have  been  death  to  remain  long- 
unsheltered  on  the  sand.  Yusef  walked  be- 
side the  horse,  with  difficulty  supporting 
the  drooping  form  of  Sadi,  which  would 
otherwise  soon  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 
The  journey  on  foot  was  very  exhausting 
to  Yusef,  who  could  scarcely  sustain  the 
weight  of  the  helpless  Sadi.  Thankful  was 
the  Syrian  hakeem  when  they  reached  the 
Bedouin  tents. 

Then  Sadi  was  placed  on  the  mat  which 


The  Doctor^  s  Revenge.  119 

had  sensed  Yusef  for  a  bed.  Yusef  himself 
passed  the  night  without  rest,  watching  at 
the  sufferer's  side.  Most  carefully  did  the 
hakeem  nurse  his  enemy  through  a  raging 
fever.  Yusef  spared  no  effort  of  skill, 
shrank  from  no  painful  exertion,  to  save  the 
life  of  the  man  who  had  nearly  destroyed 
his  own ! 

On  the  third  day  the  fever  abated ;  on  the 
evening  of  that  day  Sadi  suddenly  opened 
his  eyes,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  his  ill- 
ness, recognized  Yusef,  who  had,  as  he 
believed,  perished  months  before  in  the 
desert. 

**Has  the  dead  come  to  life?"  exclaimed 
the  trembling  Sadi,  fixing  upon  Yusef  a 
w41d  and  terrified  gaze;  ''has  the  injured 
returned  for  vengeance?" 

'*Nay,  my  brother,"  replied  Yusef  sooth- 
ingly; "let  us  not  recall  the  past,  or  recall 
it  but  to  bless  Him  who  has  preserved  us 
both  from  death." 

Tears  dimmed  the  dark  eyes  of  Sadi ;  he 
grasped  the  kind  hand  which  Yusef  held 
out.  ''I  have  deeply  wronged  thee,"  he 
faltered  forth;  "how  can  I  receive  all  this 
kindness  at  thy  hand?" 

A  gentle  smile  passed  over  the  lips  of 
Yusef ;  he  remembered  the  cruel  words  once 
uttered  by  Sadi,  and  made  reply:  "If  thou 
hast  wronged  me,  thus  I  repay  thee :  Mos- 
lem, this  is  a  Christian's  revenge  I" 


THE  WOODCUTTER'S  CHIIvD. 

Once  upon  a  time,  near  a  large  wood, 
there  lived  a  woodcutter  and  his  wife,  who 
had  only  one  child,  a  little  girl  three  3^ears 
old;  but  they  were  so  poor  that  they  had 
scarcely  food  sufficient  for  every  day  in  the 
week,  and  often  they  were  puzzled  to  know 
what  they  should  get  to  eat.  One  morning 
the  woodcutter  went  into  the  wood  to  work, 
full  of  care,  and,  as  he  chopped  the  trees, 
there  stood  before  him  a  tall  and  beautiful 
woman,  having  a  crown  of  shining  stars 
upon  her  head,  who  thus  addressed  him: 
"I  am  the  Guardian  Angel  of  ever}^  Christ- 
ian child ;  thou  art  poor  and  needy ;  bring 
me  thy  child,  and  I  will  take  her  with  me. 
I  will  be  her  mother,  and  henceforth  she 
shall  be  under  my  care. ' '  The  woodcutter 
consented,  and  calling  his  child  gave  her  to 
the  Angel,  who  carried  her  to  the  land  of 
Happiness.  There  everything  went  happily ; 
she  ate  sweet  bread  and  drank  pure  milk; 
her  clothes  were  gold,  and  her  playfellows 
were  beautiful  children.  When  she  became 
fourteen  years  old,  the  Guardian  Angel 
called  her  to  her  side  and  said,  "My  dear 
child,  I  have  a  long  journey  for  thee.  Take 
these  keys  of  the  thirteen  doors  of  the  land 
1 20 


The  Woodcutter'^ s  Child.  121 

of  Happiness;  twelve  of  them  thou  mayest 
open,  and  behold  the  glories  therein;  but 
the  thirteenth,  to  which  this  little  key 
belongs, thou  art  forbidden  to  open.  Beware ! 
if  thou  dost  disobey,  harm  will  befall  thee." 

The  maiden  promised  to  be  obedient,  and, 
w^hen  the  Guardian  Angel  was  gone,  began 
her  visits  to  the  mansions  of  Happiness. 
Every  day  one  door  was  unclosed,  until  she 
had  seen  all  the  twelve.  In  each  mansion 
there  sat  an  angel,  surrounded  by  a  bright 
light.  The  maiden  rejoiced  at  the  glory, 
and  the  child  who  accompanied  her  rejoiced 
w4th  her.  Now  the  forbidden  door  alone 
remained.  A  great  desire  possessed  the 
maiden  to  know  what  was  hidden  there; 
and  she  said  to  the  child,  "I  will  not  quite 
open  it,  nor  will  I  go  in,  but  I  will  only 
unlock  the  door  so  that  w^e  may  peep  through 
the  chink."  "No,  no,"  said  the  child; 
"that  will  be  a  sin.  The  Guardian  Angel 
has  forbidden  it,  and  misfortune  would  soon 
fall  upon  us. ' ' 

At  this  the  maiden  was  silent,  but  the 
desire  still  remained  in  her  heart,  and  tor- 
mented her  continually,  so  that  she  had  no 
peace.  One  day,  however,  all  the  children 
were  away,  and  she  thought,  "Now  I  am 
alone  and  can  peep  in,  no  one  will  know 
w^hat  I  do;"  so  she  found  the  keys,  and, 
taking  them  in  her  hand,  placed  the  right 


12  2  TJie  Children's  Portion. 

one  in  the  lock  and  turned  it  round.  Then 
the  door  sprang  open,  and  she  saw  three 
angels  sitting  on  a  throne,  surrounded  by  a 
great  light.  The  maiden  remained  a  little 
while  standing  in  astonishment;  and  then, 
putting  her  finger  in  the  light,  she  drew  it 
back  and  it  was  turned  into  gold.  Then 
great  alarm  seized  her,  and,  shutting  the 
door  hastily,  she  ran  away.  But  her  fear 
only  increased  more  and  more,  and  her 
heart  beat  so  violently  that  she  thought  it 
would  burst;  the.  gold  also  on  her  finger 
would  not  come  off,  although  she  washed  it 
and  rubbed  it  with  all  her  strength. 

Not  long  afterward  the  Guardian  Angel 
came  back  from  her  journey,  and  calling  the 
maiden  to  her,  demanded  the  kej^s  of  the 
mansion.  As  she  delivered  them  up,  the 
Angel  looked  in  her  face  and  asked,  "Hast 
thou  opened  the  thirteenth  door?' ' — "No, ' ' 
answered  the  maiden. 

Then  the  Angel  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
maiden's  heart,  and  felt  how  violently  it 
was  beating;  and  she  knew  that  her  com- 
mand had  been  disregarded,  and  that  the 
child  had  opened  the  door.  Then  she  asked 
again,  "Hast  thou  opened  the  thirteenth 
door?" — "No,"  vSaid  the  maiden,  for  the 
second  time. 

Then  the  Angel  perceived  that  the  child's 
finger  had  become  golden  from  touching  the 


The  Woodcutter's  Child.  123 

light,  and  she  knew  that  the  child  was 
guilty ;  and  she  asked  her  for  the  third  time, 
"Hast  thou  opened  the  thirteenth  door?" — 
"No,"  said  the  maiden  again. 

Then  the  Guardian  Angel  replied,  "Thou 
hast  not  obeyed  me,  nor  done  my  bidding ; 
therefore  thou  art  no  longer  worth}^  to 
remain  among  good  children. ' ' 

And  the  maiden  sank  down  in  a  deep 
sleep,  and  when  she  awoke  she  found  her- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  wilderness.  She 
wished  to  call  out,  but  she  had  lost  her 
voice.  Then  she  sprang  up,  and  tried  to 
run  away ;  but  wherever  she  turned  thick 
bushes  held  her  back,  so  that  she  could  not 
escape.  In  the  deserted  spot  in  which  she 
was  now  enclosed,  there  stood  an  old  hollow 
tree ;  this  w^as  her  dw^elling-place.  In  this 
place  she  slept  by  night,  and  when  it  rained 
and  blew  she  found  shelter  within  it.  Roots 
and  wild  berries  were  her  food,  and  she 
sought  for  them  as  far  as  she  could  reach. 
In  the  autumn  she  collected  the  leaves  of 
the  trees,  and  laid  them  in  her  hole ;  and 
when  the  frost  and  snow  of  the  winter  came, 
she  clothed  herself  with  them,  for  her 
clothes  had  dropped  into  rags.  But  during 
the  sunshine  she  sat  outside  the  tree,  and 
her  long  hair  fell  down  on  all  sides  and  cov- 
ered her  like  a  mantle.  Thus  she  remained 
a  long  time  experiencing  the  misery  and 
poverty  of  the  world. 


124  ^^^  Children'' s  Portiofi. 

But,  once,  when  the  trees  had  become 
green  again,  the  King  of  the  country  was 
hunting  in  the  forest,  and  as  a  bird  flew 
into  the  bushes  which  surrounded  the  wood, 
he  dismounted,  and,  tearing  the  brushwood 
aside,  cut  a  path  for  himself  w4th  his  sword. 
When  he  had  at  last  made  his  way  through, 
he  saw  a  beautiful  maiden,  wdiowas  clothed 
from  head  to  foot  with  her  own  golden 
locks,  sitting  under  the  tree.  He  stood  in 
silence,  and  looked  at  her  for  some  time  in 
astonishment;  at  last  he  said,  "Child,  how 
came  you  into  this  wilderness?"  But  the 
maiden  answered  not,  for  she  had  become 
diunb.  Then  the  King  asked,  "Will  you 
go  with  me  to  my  castle?"  At  that  she 
nodded  her  head,  and  the  King,  taking  her 
in  his  arms,  put  her  on  his  horse  and  rode 
away  home.  Then  he  gave  her  beautiful 
clothing,  and  everything  in  abundance. 
Still  she  could  not  speak ;  but  her  beauty 
was  so  great,  and  so  won  upon  the  King's 
heart,  that  after  a  little  while  he  married 
her. 

When  about  a  year  had  passed  away,  the 
Queen  brought  a  son  into  the  world,  and  in 
that  night,  while  lying  alone  in  her  bed  the 
Guardian  Angel  appeared  to  her  and  said: 

"Wilt  thou  tell  the  truth  and  confess  that 
thou  didst  unlock  the  forbidden  door?  For 
then  will  I  open  thy  mouth  and  give  thee 


The  Woodcutter's  CJiild.  125 

again  the  power  of  speech;  but  if  thou 
remainest  obstinate  in  thy  sin  then  will  I 
take  from  thee  thy  new-born  babe.  * ' 

And  the  power  to  answer  was  given  to  her, 
but  she  remained  hardened,  and  said,  "No, 
I  did  not  open  the  door ; ' '  and  at  those  words 
the  Guardian  Angel  took  the  child  out  of 
her  arms  and  disappeared  with  him. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  child  was 
not  to  be  seen,  a  murmur  arose  among  the 
people,  that  their  Queen  was  a  murderess, 
who  had  destroyed  her  only  son ;  but, 
although  she  heard  ever^-thing,  she  could 
say  nothing.  But  the  King  did  not  believe 
the  ill  report  because  of  his  great  love  for 
her. 

About  a  year  afterward  another  son  was 
born,  and  on  the  night  of  his  birth  the 
Guardian  Angel  again  appeared,  and  asked, 
"Wilt  thou  confess  that  thou  didst  open  the 
forbidden  door  ?  Then  will  I  restore  to  thee 
thy  son,  and  give  thee  the  power  of  speech; 
but  if  thou  hardenest  thyself  in  thy  sin, 
then  will  I  take  this  new-born  babe  also 
with  me. ' ' 

Then  the  Queen  answ^ered  again,  "No,  I 
did  not  open  the  door;"  so  the  Angel  took 
the  second  child  out  of  her  arms  and  bore 
him  away.  On  the  morrow,  when  the  infant 
could  not  be  found,  the  people  said  openly 
that   the    Queen    had   slain   him,    and   the 


126  The  Childr ell's  Portion. 

King's  councillors  advised  that  she  should 
be  brought  to  trial.  But  the  King's  affec- 
tion was  still  so  great  that  he  would  not 
believe  it,  and  he  commanded  his  councillors 
never  again  to  mention  the  report  on  pain 
of  death. 

The  next  year  a  beautiful  little  girl  was 
born,  and  for  the  third  time  the  Guardian 
Angel  appeared  and  said  to  the  Queen, 
' '  Follow  me ; '  *  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
she  led  her  to  the  kingdom  of  Happiness, 
and  showed  to  her  the  two  other  children, 
who  were  playing  merrily.  The  Queen 
rejoiced  at  the  sight,  and  the  Angel  said, 
* '  Is  thy  heart  not  yet  softened  ?  If  thou  wilt 
confess  that  thou  didst  unlock  the  forbidden 
door,  then  will  I  restore  to  thee  both  th}- 
sons. ' '  But  the  Queen  again  answered, 
' '  No,  I  did  not  open  it ; "  and  at  these  w^ords 
she  sank  upon  the  earth,  and  her  third  child 
was  taken  from  her. 

When  this  was  rumored  abroad  the  next 
day,  all  the  people  exclaimed,  ''The  Queen 
is  a  murderess;  she  must  be  condemned;" 
and  the  King  could  not  this  time  repulse  his 
councillors.  Thereupon  a  trial  was  held, 
and  since  the  Queen  could  make  no  good 
answer  or  defence,  she  was  condemned  to 
die  upon  a  funeral  pile.  The  wood  was  col- 
lected ;  she  was  bound  to  the  stake,  and  the 
fire  was  lighted  all  around  her.     Then  the 


The  IVoodaittcr'^s  Child.  127 

iron  pride  of  her  heart  began  to  soften,  and 
she  was  moved  to  repentance;  and  she 
thought,  "Could  I  but  now,  before  my 
death,  confess  that  I  opened  the  door!" 
And  her  tongue  was  loosened,  and  she  cried 
aloud,  **Thou  good  Angel,  I  confess. ' '  At 
these  words  the  rain  descended  from  heaven 
and  extinguished  the  fire ;  then  a  great  light 
shone  above,  and  the  Angel  appeared  and 
descended  upon  the  earth,  and  by  her  side 
were  the  Queen's  two  sons,  one  on  her  right 
hand  and  the  other  on  her  left,  and  in  her 
arms  she  bore  the  new-born  babe.  Then 
the  Angel  restored  to  the  Queen  her  three 
children,  and  loosening  her  tongue  promised 
her  great  happiness  and  said,  "Whoever  will 
repent  and  confess  their  sins,  they  shall  be 
forgiven. ' ' 


SHOW  YOUR  COLORS. 

BY  REV.    C.    H.    MEAD. 

I  was  riding  on  the  train  through  the 
eastern  section  of  North  Carolina.  Nothing 
can  be  flatter  than  that  portion  of  the  coun- 
try, unless  it  be  the  religious  experience  of 
some  people.  The  rain  was  pouring  down 
fast,  and,  for  a  person  so  inclined,  not  a 
better  day  and  place  for  the  blues  could  be 
found.  Looking  out  of  the  car  windows 
brought  nothing  more  interesting  to  view 
than  pine  trees,  bony  mules  and  razor-back 
hogs.  Groups  of  men,  white  and  black, 
gathered  at  each  station  to  see  the  train 
arrive  and  depart.  Each  passenger  that 
entered  brought  in  more  damp,  moisture 
and  blues. 

Two  men  at  last  came  in  and  took  the 
seat  in  front  of  me.  Shortly  after,  one  of 
them  took  a  bottle  from  his  pocket,  pulled 
the  cork,  and  handed  the  bottle  to  his  com- 
panion. He  took  a  drink,  and  the  smell  of 
liquor  filled  the  car.  Then  the  first  one  took 
a  drink,  and  back  and  forth  the  bottle 
passed,  until  at  last  it  was  empty  and  they 
were  full.  Then  one  of  them  commenced 
swearing,  and  such  blasphemy  I  never  heard 
in  all  my  life.  It  made  the  very  air  blue — 
128 


Shoiv   Your  Coloj^s.  129 

women  shrank  back,  while  the  heads  of  men 
were  uplifted  to  see  where  the  stream  of 
profanity  came  from.  It  went  on  for  some 
time,  until  I  began  talking  to  myself.  I 
always  did  like  to  talk  to  a  sensible 
man. 

**Henry,  that  man  belongs  to  the  devil." 

''There  is  no  doubt  about  that, ' '  I  replied. 

* '  He  is  not  ashamed  of  it. ' ' 

'*Not  a  bit  ashamed. '  * 

''Whom  do  you  belong  to?" 

"I  belong  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. ' ' 

"Are  you  glad  or  sorry?" 

"I  am  glad — very  glad." 

"Who  in  the  car  knows  that  man  belongs 
to  the  devil?" 

"Everybody  knows  that,  for  he  has  not 
kept  it  a  secret. ' ' 

"Who  in  the  car  knows  you  belong  to  the 
Lord  Jesus  ? ' ' 

"Why,  no  one  knows  it,  for  you  see  I  am 
a  stranger  around  here. ' ' 

"Are  you  willing  they  should  know  whom 
you  belong  to  ? " 

"Yes;  I  am  willing. ' ' 

"Very  well,  will  you  let  them  know  it?" 

I  thought  a  moment  and  then  said,  "By 
the  help  of  my  Master  I  will. ' ' 

Then  straightening  up  and  taking  a  good 
breath,  I  began  singing  in  a  voice  that  could 
be  heard  by  all  in  the  car : 


130  The  Children's  Poi^tion. 

There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 
Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins; 

And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains. 

Before  I  had  finished  the  first  verse  and 
chorus,  the  passengers  had  crowded  down 
around  me,  and  the  blasphemer  had  turned 
round  and  looked  at  me  with  a  face  resem- 
bling a  thunder  cloud.  As  I  finished  the 
•chorus,  he  said: 

''What  are  3^ou  doing?" 

'*I  am  singing,"  I  replied. 

**Well, "  said  he,  "any  fool  can  under- 
stand that.  * ' 

'*I  am  glad  3'ou  understand  it. ' ' 

*'What  are  you  singing?" 

*'I  am  singing  the  religion  of  the  Lord 
Jesus. ' ' 

''Well,  vou  quit." 

''Quit  what?" 

"Quit  singing  your  religion  on  the  cars. ' ' 

"I  guess  not,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  belong 
to  the  Quit  family ;  my  name  is  Mead.  For 
the  last  half  hour  you  have  been  standing 
by  your  master ;  now  for  the  next  half  hour 
I  am  going  to  stand  up  for  my  Master. ' ' 

"Who  is  my  master?" 

"The  devil  is  3'our  master — while  Christ 
is  mine.  I  am  as  proud  of  my  Master  as 
you  are  of  yours.  Now  I  am  going  to  have 
any  turn,  if  the  passengers  don't  object. ' ' 


Shotv   Your  Colors.  131 

A  chorus  of  voices  cried  out:  **Sing  on, 
stranger,  we  like  that. ' ' 

I  sung  on,  and  as  the  next  verse  was  fin- 
ished, the  blasphemer  turned  his  face  away, 
and  I  saw  nothing  of  him  after  that  but  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  that  w^as  the  hand- 
somest part  of  him.  He  left  the  train  soon 
after,  and  I  am  glad  to  say  I've  never  seen 
him  since.  Song  after  song  followed,  and 
I  soon  had  other  voices  to  help  me.  When 
the  song  service  ended,  an  old  man  came  to 
me,  put  out  his  hand,  and  said,  ''Sir,  I  owe 
you  thanks  and  a  confession. ' ' 

''Thanks  for  what?" 

"Thanks  for  rebuking  that  blasphemer. ' ' 

"Don't  thank  me  for  that,  but  give 
tfeanks  to  my  Master.  I  try  to  stand  up  for 
Him  wherever  I  am.  What  about  the  con- 
fession ? ' ' 

"I  am  in  my  eight^'-third  year.  I  have 
been  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel  for  over  sixty 
years.  When  I  heard  that  man  swearing 
so,  I  wanted  to  rebuke  him.  I  rose  from 
my  seat  two  or  three  times,  to  do  so,  but  my 
courage  failed.  I  have  not  much  longer  to 
live,  but  never  again  will  I  refuse  to  show 
my  colors  anj- where. ' ' 


HER  DANGER  SIGNAL. 

BY  EMMA   C.    HEWITT. 

She  did — I  am  sorry  to  record  it,  but  she 
did — Letty  Bascombe  salted  her  pie-crust 
with  a  great,  big  tear. 

Not  that  she  had  none  of  the  other  salt, 
nor  that  she  intended  to  do  it,  but,  all  of  a 
sudden,  a  big  tear,  oh,  as  big  as  the  end  of 
your  thumb,  if  you  are  a  little,  little  girl, 
ran  zigzag  across  her  cheek  down  to  her 
chin,  and,  before  vshe  could  wipe  it  off,  a 
sudden,  sharp  sob  took  her  unawares  and, 
plump,  right  into  the  pastry,  w'ent  this  big 
fat  tear.  Of  course,  if  you  are  even  a  little 
girl  you  must  know  that  it  is  as  useless  to 
hunt  for  tears  in  pie-crust  as  it  is  to  "hunt 
for  a  needle  in  a  hay-staqk. ' '  So  Letty  did 
not  even  try  to  recover  her  lost  property. 
But  it  had  one  good  effect,  it  made  her 
laugh,  and,  between  you  and  me  (I  tell  this 
to  you  as  a  secret),  Letty,  like  every  other 
girl,  little  or  big,  fat  or  thin,  was  much 
pleasanter  to  look  upon  when  she  smiled 
than  when  she  cried.  But  she  didn't  smile 
for  that.  Oh,  dear,  no.  She  smiled  because 
she  couldn't  help  it.  She  was  a  good- 
natured,  sweet-tempered  little  puss,  most 
times,  and  possessed  of  a  very  sunny  dis- 
132 


Her  Danger  Signal.  133 

position.  **Why  did  she  salt  her  pie-crust 
with  tears,  then?"  I  hear  you  ask.  Ah, 
"Why?"  And  wait  till  I  tell  you.  The 
most  curious  part  of  it  all  was  that  it  was  a 
Thanksgiving  crust.  There,  now.  The 
worst  is  out.  A  common,  every-day,  week- 
a~day  pie,  or  even  a  Sunday  pie,  would  be 
bad  enough,  but  a  Thanksgiving  pie  of  all 
things.  Why,  everybody  is  happy  at 
Thanksgiving. 

Well,  not  quite  everybody,  it  seems,  be- 
cause if  that  was  so  Letty  wouldn't  be  cr>'- 
ing. 

Now  let  me  tell  you  why  poor  Letty  Bas- 
combe,  with  her  sunny  temper,  cried  on  this 
day  while  she  was  making  pies. 

You  see,  she  was  only  fifteen,  and  when 
one  is  fifteen,  and  there  is  fun  going  on  that 
one  can't  be  in,  it  is  very  trying,  to  say  the 
least.  Not  that  tears  help  it  the  least  in 
the  w^orld,  no,  indeed.  In  fact,  tears  at 
such  times  always  make  matters  worse. 

Well,  she  was  only  fifteen,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, and,  instead  of  going  w^ith  the  famil}' 
into  town,  she  had  to  sta}^  home  and  make 
pies. 

Now  the  family  were  no  relation  to  her. 
She  was  only  Mrs.  Mason's  ''help. ' '  Eight- 
een months  ago  Lett3''s  mother  (a  widow) 
had  died.  Her  brother  had  gone  awa^-  off 
to  a  large  cit}^  and  she  had  come  to  Mrs. 


134  T^^^  CJiildre)i's  Portion. 

Mason's  to  live.  Mrs.  Mason  was  as  kind 
as  she  could  be  to  her,  but  you  know  one 
must  feel ''blue"  at  times  when  one  has 
lost  all  but  one  relative  in  the  world,  and 
that  one  is  a  dear  brother  w^ho  is  way,  way 
off,  even  if  one  is  surrounded  by  the  kind- 
est friends. 

So  now,  tell  me,  don't  you  think  Letty 
had  something  to  shed  tears  about? 

'*I  j-just  c-can't  help  it.  I'm  not  one  bit 
'thankful'  this  Thanksgiving,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  pretend  I  am.  So  there.  And 
here  I  am  making  nasty  pies,  when  ever>'- 
body  else  has  gone  to  town  having  a  good 
time.  No,  I'm  not  one  bit  thankful,  so 
there,  and  I  feel  as  if  turkey  and  cranberries 
and  pumpkin  pie  would  choke  me. ' ' 

But  after  Letty  "had  her  cry  out"  she 
felt  better,  and  in  a  little  w^iile  her  nimble 
fingers  had  finished  her  work  and  she  was 
ready  for  a  little  amusement.  This  amuse- 
ment vshe  concluded  to  find  by  taking  a  little 
walk  to  the  end  of  the  garden.  The  garden 
ended  abruptly  in  a  ravine,  and  it  was  a 
source  of  unfailing  delight  to  go  down  there 
and,  from  a  secure  position,  see  the  trains 
go  thundering  by. 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  train  would  be 
along  and  then  she  would  go  back.  Idly 
gazing  down  from  her  secure  height,  her 
«eye   was   suddenly   caught    by    something 


Her  Danger  Signal.  135 

creeping  along  the  ground.  Letty's  keen 
sight  at  once  decided  this  to  be  a  man — a 
man  with  a  log  in  his  hand.  This  log  he 
carefully  adjusted  across  the  track. 

"What  a  very  curious — "  began  Letty. 
But  her  exclamation  was  cut  short  by  the 
awful  intuition  that  the  man  meant  to 
wreck  the  on-coming  train. 

All  thought  of  private  sorrow  fled  in  an 
instant.  What  could  she  do?  What  must 
she  do,  for  save  the  train  she  must,  of 
course.  Who  else  was  there  to  do  it?  And 
oh,  such  a  little  time  to  do  it  in.  To  go 
around  by  the  path  would  take  a  half-hour. 
To  climb  down  the  side  of  the  ravine  would 
be  madness.  Suddenly  her  mind  was  illum- 
inated. Yes,  she  could  do  that,  and  like 
the  wind  she  was  up  at  the  house  and  back 
again,  only  this  time  she  steered  for  a  spot 
a  hundred  rods  up,  just  the  other  side  of  the 
curve. 

In  a  trice  she  had  whipped  off  her  scarlet 
balmoral,  the  balmoral  she  hated  so,  and 
had  attached  to  it  one  end  of  the  hundred 
feet  of  rope  she  had  brought  from  the  house. 

Could  she  do  it  ?  Could  she  crawl  out  on 
that  branch  there  and  hold  that  danger  sig- 
nal down  in  front  of  the  train? 

She  shuddered  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  O,  no,  no,  she  never  could  do 
it.     Suppose  she  should  fall  off  or  the  limb 


136  The  Children's  Portion. 

break.  But  she  wouldn't  fall,  she  mustn't 
fall.  Hark !  There  is  the  engine.  If  she 
is  going  to  save  the  train  there  is  no  time 
for  further  delay.  With  a  prayer  for  guid- 
ance and  protection,  slowly,  oh  so  slowly, 
that  it  seemed  hours  before  she  got  there, 
Letty  crawled  out  to  the  branch  and  dangled 
below  her,  across  the  track,  her  flag  of  dan- 
ger. She  could  not  see  what  was  going  on, 
because  she  dared  not  look  down.  So,  look- 
ing constantly  up  (and,  children,  believe 
me,  "looking  up"  is  one  of  the  best  things 
you  can  do  when  in  danger  or  trouble),  and 
sending  a  silent  wordless  petition  for  the 
safet}'  of  the  train,  Letty  held  her  precari- 
ous post.  Hark,  it  is  slowing  up.  Her 
balmoral  has  been  seen  and  the  train  is 
saved.  The  tension  over,  she  cautiously 
turned  and  crawled  slowly  back  to  land,  and 
then  dropped  in  a  dead  faint.  Recovering, 
however,  she  went  slowly  up  to  the  house, 
trembling  and  sick  and  shivering  with  the 
cold  from  the  loss  of  the  warm  skirt  hang- 
ing on  the  clothes-line  down  in  the 
ravine. 

Relaxed  and  limp  she  sat  down  in  the  big 
rocker  before  the  kitchen  stove,  a  confused 
mass  of  thoughts  racing  through  her  head. 
Dazed  and  excited,  she  hardly  knew  how 
time  was  passing  until  she  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels. 


Her  Danger  Signal.  137 

**0,  Letty,  the  funniest  thing — "  shouted 
Laura,  bursting  into  the  kitchen. 

"Wait,  let  me  tell,"  interrupted  Jamie. 
''Why,  Letty,  somebody's  hung — " 

''Somebody  hung,"  exclaimed  Letty,  in 
horror.  "Why,  Laura  Mason,  how  dare 
you  say  that  was  funny?" 

"I  didn't — "  began  Laura,  indignantly, 
but  here  Mrs.  Mason  interfered  with  a  "Sh- 
sh-sh,  children,  mercy,  goodness,  you  nearly 
drive  me  wild.  Here.  Laura,  take  moth- 
er's bonnet  and  shawl  up-stairs. 

"Here,  Jamie,  take  my  boots  and  bring 
me  my  slippers.  I'm  that  tired  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  m3'self.  Goodness, 
but  it  feels  good  to  get  home.  The  strang- 
est thing's  happened,  Letty.  The  afternoon 
express  was  coming  into  town  this  after- 
noon, and,  when  it  w^as  about  two  miles 
out,  all  of  a  sudden  the  engineer  saw  a  red 
flannel  petticoat  hanging  right  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  track,  hanging  by  a 
clothes-line,  mind,  from  the  limb  of  a  tree. 
He  thought  at  first  it  w^as  a  joke,  but 
changed  his  mind  and  thought  he'd  look 
further,  and  would  you  believe  it,  he  found 
a  great,  big  log  across  the  track.  If  the 
train  had  come  on  that  I  guess  there 'd  been 
more  grief  than  Thanksgiving  in  this  neigh- 
borhood to-morrow. ' ' 

Mrs.  Mason  had  said  all  this  along  in  one 


138  The  Children's  Portion. 

steady  strain,  while  she  was  walking  round 
the  room  putting  away  her  parcels. 

Getting  no  response,  she  turned  to  look 
at  Letty  for  the  first  time.  ' '  Why  goodness ! 
The  girl  has  fainted.  What  on  earth  do  j^ou 
suppose  is  the  matter  with  her? 

* 'Jamie,  come  quick.    Get  me  some  water. 

* 'There, "  when  the  restorative  had  had 
the  desired  effect.  ''Why,  what  ailed  you, 
Letty?  You  weren't  sick  when  I  went 
away.  Bless  me!  I  hope  you  ain't  going 
to  be  sick,  and  such  a  surprise  as  we've  got 
for  you,  too,  out  in  the  barn.  But  there. 
If  that  isn't  just  like  me.  I  didn't  me?-n 
to  tell  you  yet. ' ' 

"Why,  mother,  mother,"  exclaimed 
Father  Mason  excitedly  as  he  rushed  into 
the  room.  "Somebody's  just  come  from 
the  village  with  this,"  flourishing  Letty 's 
skirt  wildly  around,  "and  they  say  the  train 
was  stopped  right  back  of  our  house. ' ' 

"For  the  land's  sake.  Job !  Well,  if  that 
ain't  our  Letty 's  red  balmoral.  How  did  it 
— is  that  the — Letty,  was  it  you?"  she  fin- 
ished up  rather  disjointedly. 

Letty  nodded,  unable  to  speak  just  then. 

"Well,  who'd  'a'  thought  it.  So  you 
saved  the  train !     Do  tell  us  all  about  it. ' ' 

"Mother,  don't  you  think  we'd  better 
wait  a  bit  till  she  looks  a  mite  stronger, ' ' 
suggested  kind-hearted  Job  Mason. 


Her  Danger  Signal.  139 

**Well,  I  don't  know  but  you're  right, 
but  I'm  clean  beat  out.  Don't  you  think, 
Job,  that  we  might  bring  Letty's  surprise — 
but  there's  the  surprise  walking  in  from  the 
barn  of  itself.  Tired  of  waiting,  likelv  as 
not. ' ' 

**Yes,  Letty,"  broke  in  Laurie.  ''Did 
you  know  your  brother  had  come  home  and 
that  you  saved  his  life  this  afternoon  with 
that  old  red  skirt  of  yours?"  So  the  mis- 
chief was  out  at  last,  and  though  the  excite- 
ment and  everything  nearly  killed  Letty,  it 
didn't  quite,  or  I  don't  think  I  would  have 
undertaken  to  tell  this  stor3^  I  don't  like 
sad  Thanksgiving  stories.  Not  that  there 
aren't  any;  T  only  say  I  don't  like  them^ 
that's  all. 

Well,  sitting  in  her  brother's  lap — (what, 
fifteen  j^ears  old  ?) — yes,  sitting  in  her  broth- 
er's  lap,  she  had  to  tell  over  and  over 
again  all  she  thought  and  felt  that  after- 
noon, and  to  hear  over  and  over  again  what 
a  dreadful  time  they  had  keeping  the  secret 
from  her.  How  they  were  so  afraid  that 
she  would  find  out  that  they  expected  to 
meet  her  brother — how  he  had  been  so 
anxious  that  she  should  not  be  told  lest  by 
some  accident  he  shouldn't  arrive,  and  then 
she  would  be  bitterly  disappointed  and  her 
Thanksgiving  spoiled. 

Accident !  I^etty  shuddered  each  time  that 


140  The  Childreii^s  Po7'tion. 

the}^  reached  that  part  of  the  story,  for  she 
thought  how  nearly  the  accident  had  hap- 
pened, and  as  she  knelt  to  say  her  prayers 
that  night  it  was  with  a  penitent  heart  that 
she  remembered  how  she  had  felt  in  the 
morning,  and  she  had  added  fervently, 
*'Dear  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  for  this  beautiful 
Thanksgiving. ' ' 


THE  KNIGHT'S  DILEMMA. 

(  FROM    CHAUCER.  ) 

One  of  the  nobles  of  King  Arthur's  court 
had  grievously  transgressed  the  laws  of 
chivalry  and  knightly  honor,  and  for  this 
cause  had  he  been  condemned  to  suffer 
death.  Great  sorrow  reigned  among  all 
the  lords  and  dames,  and  Queen  Guinevere, 
on  bent  knees,  had  sued  the  king's  pardon 
for  the  recreant  knight.  At  length,  after 
many  entreaties,  Arthur's  generous  heart 
relented,  and  he  gave  the  doomed  life  into 
the  queen's  hands  to  do  with  it  as  she 
willed. 

Then  Guinevere,  delighted  at  the  success 
of  her  suit  with  her  royal  husband,  sent  for 
the  knight  to  appear  before  her,  in  her  own 
bower,  where  she  sat  among  the  ladies  of 
her  chamber. 

When  the  knight,  who  was  called  Sir 
Ulric,  had  reached  the  royal  lady's  presence, 
he  would  have  thrown  himself  at  her  feet 
with  many  thanks  for  the  dear  boon  which 
she  had  caused  the  king  to  grant  him.  But 
she  motioned  him  to  listen  to  w^hat  she  had 
to  say,  before  she  would  receive  his  grati- 
tude. 

"Defer  all  thanks,  Sir  Knight,"  said  the 
141 


142  The  Childrc7i*s  Portio7t. 

queen,  ** until  first  I  state  to  tliee  the  condi- 
tions on  which  thou  yet  holdest  th}^  life.  It 
is  granted  thee  to  be  free  of  death, if  within 
one  year  and  a  da^^  from  this  present  thou 
art  able  to  declare  to  me  what  of  earthly 
things  all  women  like  the  best.  If  in  that 
time  thou  canst  tell,  past  all  dispute,  what 
this  thing  be,  thou  shalt  have  thy  life  and 
freedom.  Otherwise,  on  my  queenly  honor, 
thou  diest,  as  the  king  had  first  decreed. ' ' 

When  the  knight  heard  this  he  w^as  filled 
with  consternation  and  dismay  too  great  for 
words.  At  once  in  his  heart  he  accused  the 
king  of  cruelty  in  permitting  him  to  drag 
out  a  miserable  existence  for  a  whole  year 
in  endeavoring  to  fulfill  a  condition  which 
in  his  thoughts  he  at  once  resolved  to  be 
impossible.  For  who  could  decide  upon 
what  would  please  all  ladies  best,  when  it 
was  agreed  by  all  wise  men  that  no  two  of 
the  uncertain  sex  would  ever  fix  upon  one 
and  the  same  thing? 

With  these  desponding  thoughts  Sir  Ulric 
went  out  of  the  queen's  presence,  and  pre- 
pared to  travel  abroad  over  the  country,  if 
perchance  by  inquiring  far  and  wide  he 
might  find  out  the  answer  which  would  save 
his  life. 

From  house  to  house  and  from  town  to 
town  traveled  Sir  Ulric,  asking  maid  and 
matron,  young  or  old,  the  same  question. 


The  KnighCs  Dilemma.  143 

But  never,  from  any  two,  did  he  receive  a 
like  answer.  Some  told  him  that  women 
best  loved  fine  clothes ;  some  that  they  loved 
rich  living;  some  loved  their  children  best; 
others  desired  most  to  be  loved;  and  some 
loved  best  to  be  considered  free  from  curi- 
osity, which,  since  Eve,  had  been  said  to 
be  a  woman's  chief  vice.  But  among  all, 
no  answ^ers  were  alike,  and  at  each  the 
knight's  heart  sank  in  despair,  and  he 
seemed  as  if  he  followed  and  ignis  fatuus 
w^hich  each  day  led  him  farther  and  farther 
from  the  truth. 

One  day,  as  he  rode  through  a  pleasant 
wood,  the  knight  alighted  and  sat  himself 
down  under  a  tree  to  rest,  and  bewail  his 
unhappy  lot.  Sitting  here,  in  a  loud  voice 
he  accused  his  unfriendly  stars  that  they 
had  brought  him  into  so  sad  a  state.  While 
he  spoke  thus,  he  looked  up  and  beheld  an 
old  woman,  wTapped  in  a  heavy  mantle, 
standing  beside  him.  Sir  Ulric  thought  he 
had  never  seen  so  hideous  a  hag  as  she  who 
now  stood  gazing  at  him.  She  w^as  wrinkled 
and  toothless,  and  bent  w4th  age.  One  eye 
was  shut,  and  in  the  other  was  a  leer  so 
horrible  that  he  feared  her  some  uncanny 
creature  of  the  wood,  and  crossed  himself 
as  he  looked  on  her. 

*'Good  knight,"  said  the  old  crone, 
before   he   could  arise  to  leave  her  sight, 


144  '^^^^  Children's  Portion. 

^'tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  what  hard  thing  ye 
seek.  I  am  old,  and  have  had  much  wis- 
dom. It  may  happen  that  I  can  help  you 
out  of  the  great  trouble  into  which  you 
have  come. ' ' 

The  knight,  in  spite  of  her  loathsomeness, 
felt  a  ray  of  hope  at  this  offer,  and  in  a  few 
words  told  her  what  he  was  seeking. 

As  soon  as  she  had  heard,  the  old  creature 
burst  into  so  loud  a  laugh  that  between 
laughing  and  mumbling  Sir  Ulric  feared 
she  would  choke  herself  before  she  found 
breath  to  answer  him. 

"You  are  but  a  poor  hand  at  riddles," 
she  said  at  length,  **if  you  cannot  guess 
what  is  so  simple.  Let  me  but  whisper  two 
words  in  your  ear,  and  you  shall  be  able  to 
tell  the  queen  what  neither  she  nor  her 
ladies  nor  any  woman  in  all  the  kingdom 
shall  be  able  to  deny.  But  I  give  my  aid 
on  one  condition, — that  if  I  be  right  in 
what  I  tell,  you  shall  grant  me  one  boon, 
whatever  I  ask,  if  the  same  be  in  your 
power. ' ' 

The  knight  gladly  consented,  and  on  this 
the  old  hag  whispered  in  his  ear  two  little 
words,  which  caused  him  to  leap  upon  his 
horse  with  great  joy  and  set  out  directly  for 
the  queen's  court. 

When  he  had  arrived  there,  and  given 
notice  of  his  readiness  to  answer  her,  Guine- 


The  Kiiighf^s  Dilenima.  145 

vere  held  a  great  meeting  in  her  chief  hall, 
of  all  the  ladies  in  the  kingdom.  Thither 
came  old  and  young,  wife,  maid  and  widow, 
to  decide  if  Sir  Ulric  answered  aright. 

The  queen  was  placed  on  a  high  throne  as 
judge  if  what  he  said  be  the  truth,  and  all 
present  waited  eagerly  for  his  time  to  speak. 
When,  therefore,  it  was  demanded  of  him 
what  he  had  to  say,  all  ears  stretched  to 
hear  his  answer. 

^'Noble  lady,"  said  the  knight,  when  he 
saw  all  eyes  and  ears  intent  upon  him,  ''I 
have  sought  far  and  wide  the  answer  you 
desired.  And  I  find  that  the  thing  of  all 
the  world  which  pleaseth  women  best,  is  to 
have  their  own  way  in  all  things. ' ' 

When  the  knight  had  made  this  answer 
in  a  clear  and  manl}^  voice,  which  was  heard 
all  over  the  audience  chamber,  there  was 
much  flivtter  and  commotion  among  all  the 
women  present,  and  many  were  at  first 
inclined  to  gainsay  him.  But  Queen  Guine- 
vere questioned  all  thoroughly,  and  gave 
fair  judgment,  and  at  the  end  declared  that 
the  knight  had  solved  the  question,  and 
there  was  no  woman  there  who  did  not  con- 
fess that  he  spoke  aright. 

On  this  Ulric  received  his  life  freeh^  and 
was  preparing  to  go  out  in  great  joy,  when 
suddenly  as  he  turned  to  go,  he  saw  in  his 
way  the  little  old  woman  to  whom  he  owed 


146  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

the  answer  which  had  bought  his  life.  At 
sight  of  her,  more  hideous  than  ever,  among 
the  beauty  of  the  court  ladies,  who  looked 
at  her  in  horror  of  her  ugliness,  the  knight's 
heart  sank  again.  Before  he  could  speak 
she  demanded  of  him  her  boon. 

'  *  What  would  you  ask  of  me  ? ' '  said  Ulric, 
fearfully. 

''My  boon  is  only  this,"  answered  the 
hag,  ''that  in  return  for  thy  life,  which  my 
wit  has  preserved  to  thee,  thou  shalt  make 
me  thy  true  and  loving  wife." 

Sir  Ulric  was  filled  wath  horror,  and 
would  gladly  have  given  all  his  goods  and 
his  lands  to  escape  such  a  union.  But  not 
anything  would  the  old  crone  take  in 
exchange  for  his  fair  self;  and  the  queen 
and  all  the  court  agreeing  that  she  had  the 
right  to  enforce  her  request,  which  he  had 
promised  on  his  knightly  honor,  he  was  at 
last  obliged  to  yield  and  make  her  his  wife. 

Never  in  all  King  Arthur's  court  were 
sadder  nuptials  than  these.  No  feasting, 
no  joy,  but  onl}^  gloom  and  heaviness, which, 
spreading  itself  from  the  wretched  Sir  Ulric, 
infected  all  the  court.  Many  a  fair  dame 
pitied  him  sorely,  and  not  a  knight  but 
thanked  his  gracious  stars  that  he  did  not 
stand  in  the  like  ill  fortune. 

After  the  wedding  ceremonies,  as  Ulric 
sat  alone  in  his  chamber,  very  heavy-hearted 


The  Knight's  Dilemma.  147 

and  sad,  his  aged  bride  entered  and  sat 
down  near  him.  But  he  turned  his  back 
upon  her,  resolving  that  now  she  was  his 
wife,  he  would  have  no  more  speech  with 
her. 

While  he  sat  thus  inattentive,  she  began 
to  speak  w4th  him,  and  in  spite  of  his  indif- 
ference, Sir  Ulric  could  but  confess  that  her 
voice  was  passing  sweet,  and  her  w^ords  full 
of  wit  and  sense.  In  a  long  discourse  she 
painted  to  him  the  advantage  of  having  a 
bride  who  from  very  gratitude  would  always 
be  most  faithful  and  loving.  She  instanced 
from  history  and  song  all  those  who  by 
beauty  had  been  betrayed,  and  by  youth 
had  been  led  into  folly.     At  last  he  said: — 

**Now^,  my  sweet  lord,  I  pray  thee  tell  me 
this.  Would  you  rather  I  should  be  as  I 
am,  and  be  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
wise  in  judgment,  subject  in  all  things  to 
your  will,  or  young  and  foolish,  and  apt  to 
Ijetray  your  counsels.  Choose  now  betwixt 
the  two. ' ' 

Then  the  knight,  who  had  listened  in 
much  wonder  to  the  wisdom  with  which  she 
spoke,  and  had  pondered  over  her  words 
while  speaking,  could  not  help  being  moved 
by  the  beauty  of  her  conversation,  which 
surpassed  the  beauty  of  any  woman's  face 
which  he  had  ever  seen.  Under  this  spell 
he  answered  her: — 


148  The  Childroi^s  Portion. 

**  Indeed  I  am  content  to  choose  3^ou  even 
as  you  are.  Be  as  you  will.  A  man  could 
have  no  better  guidance  than  the  will  of  so 
sensible  a  wife." 

On  this  his  bride  uttered  a  glad  cr^^ 

**IyOok  around  upon  me,  my  good  lord," 
she  said;  "since  you  are  willing  to  yield  to 
my  will  in  this,  behold  that  I  am  not  only 
wise,  but  young  and  fair  also.  The  enchant- 
ment, which  held  me  thus  aged  and 
deformed,  till  I  could  find  a  knight  who  in 
spite  of  my  ugliness  would  marry  me,  and 
would  be  content  to  yield  to  my  will,  is  for- 
ever removed.  Now,  I  am  your  fair,  as 
well  as  your  loving  wife. ' ' 

Turning  around,  the  knight  beheld  a  lad}^ 
sweet  and  young,  more  lovely  in  her  looks 
than  Guinevere  herself.  With  happy  tears 
she  related  how  the  enchantments  had  been 
wrought  which  held  her  in  the  form  of  an 
ancient  hag  until  he  had  helped  to  remove 
the  spell.  And  from  that  time  forth  they 
lived  in  great  content,  each  happy  to  yield 
equally  to  each  other  in  all  things. 


HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS. 

BY   REV,    C.    H.    MEAD. 

** Black  3'er  boots,  mister?  Shine  'em  up 
— only  a  nickel."  Such  were  the  cries  that 
greeted  me  from  half  a  dozen  boot-blacks  as 
I  came  through  the  ferry  gates  with  my 
boots  loaded  down  with  New  Jersey  mud. 
Never  did  barnacles  stick  to  the  bottom  of 
a  vessel  more  tenaciously,  or  politician  hold 
on  to  office  with  a  tighter  grip,  than  did 
that  mud  cling  to  my  boots.  And  never 
did  flies  scent  a  barrel  of  sugar  more  quickly 
than  that  horde  of  boot-blacks  discovered 
my  mud-laden  extremities.  They  swooped 
down  upon  me  with  their  piercing  cries, 
until  many  of  my  fellow-passengers  gazed 
on  my  boots  with  looks  that  seemed  to 
rebuke  me  for  my  temerity  in  daring  to 
bring  such  a  large  amount  of  soil  to  add  to 
the  already  over-stocked  supply  of  the  city. 
My  ver>'  boots  seemed  to  plead  with  me  to 
let  one  of  those  boys  relieve  them  of  the  load 
that  weighed  them  down.  But,  behold  my 
dilemma — six  persistent,  lusty,  vociferous 
boys  clamoring  for  one  job,  while  I,  as  ar- 
biter, must  deal  out  elation  to  one  boy,  and 
dejection  to  the  five. 

** Silence !  Fall  into  line  for  inspection !" 
149 


150  The  Children's  Portion. 

Behold  m}^  brigade,  standing  in  line,  and 
no  two  of  them  alike  in  size,  feature  or  dress. 
All  looked  eager,  and  five  of  them  looked 
at  my  boots  and  pointed  their  index  fingers 
at  the  same  objects.  The  sixth  bo}-  held  up 
his  head  in  a  manly  way  and  looked  me  in 
the  e3^e.  I  looked  him  over  and  was 
affected  in  two  waj^s.  His  clothes  touched 
m}^  funn}^  bone  and  made  me  laugh  before 
I  knew  it.  If  those  pants  had  been  made 
for  that  boy,  then  since  that  time  there  had 
been  a  great  growth  in  that  boy  or  a  great 
shrinkage  in  the  pants.  But,  if  the  pants 
were  several  sizes  too  small  and  fit  him 
too  little,  the  coat  was  several  sizes  too 
large  and  fit  him  too  much,  so  that  his 
garments  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
being  a  small  child  from  his  waist  down, 
and  an  old  man  from  his  waist  up.  The 
laugh  that  came  as  my  sense  of  humor  was 
touched,  instantly  ceased  as  I  saw  the  flush 
that  came  to  the  boy's  face.  The  other  five 
boys  wanted  to  get  at  my  boots, but  this  one 
had  got  at  my  heart,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  he  should  get  at  my  boots  as  well,  and 
straightway  made  known  my  decision.  This 
at  once  brought  forth  a  volley  of  jibes  and 
jeers  and  cutting  remarks.  **0h,  'His 
Royal  Highness'  gets  the  job,  and  he  will 
be  prouder  and  meaner  than  ever,  he 
will.     Say,  mister,  he's  too  proud  to  live, 


His  Royal  High^iess.  151 

he  is.  He  thinks  he  owns  the  earth,  he 
does. ' ' 

The  flush  deepened  on  the  boy's  face,  and 
I  drove  his  assailants  away  ere  I  let  him 
begin  his  work. 

''Now,  my  boy,  take  3^our  time,  and  you 
shall  have  extra  pay  for  the  job;  pardon  me 
for  laughing  at  you;  don't  mind  those  bo3\s, 
but  tell  me  w4iy  they  call  you  'His  Royal 
Highness?'  " 

He  gazed  up  in  mx  face  a  moment  with  a 
hungry  look, and  I  said,  "You  can  trust  me. ' ' 

"Well,  sir,  they  thinks  I'm  proud  and 
stuck-up,  'cause  I  won't  pitch  pennies  and 
play  'craps'  with  'em,  and  they  says  I'm 
stingy  and  trying  to  own  the  earth,  'cause 
I  won't  chew  tobacco  and  drink  beer,  or  buy 
the  stuff  for  'em.  They  sa3^s  my  father 
must  be  a  king,  for  I  wears  such  fashionable 
clothes,  and  puts  on  so  many  airs,  but  that 
I  run  away  from  home  'cause  I  wanted  to 
boss  my  father  and  be  king  myself.  So  they 
calls  me  'His  Royal  Highness.'  " 

There  w^as  a  tremble  in  his  voice  as  he 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  he  continued : 

"If  I  ever  had  a  father,  I  never  seen  him, 
and  if  I  had  a  mother,  I  wish  someone 
w^ould  tell  me  who  she  w^as.  How  can  a 
feller  be  proud  and  stuck-up  who  ain't  got 
no  father  and  no  mother,  and  no  name  only 
Joe?      They   calls   me    stingy    'cause    I'm 


152  TJie  Childr ell's  Portion. 

saving  all  the  mone}^  I  can,  but  I  ain't  sav- 
ing it  for  myself — I'm  saving  it  for  Jessie." 

''Is  Jessie  3'our  sister?"  I  asked. 

**No,  sir;  I  ain't  got  no  relatives. ' ' 

"Perhaps,  then,  she  is  your  sweetheart, ' ' 
I  said. 

Again  he  looked  up  in  my  face  and  said 
very  earnestl}^  ''Did  you  ever  know  a  boot- 
black w^ithout  any  name  to  have  an  angel 
for  a  sweetheart  ? ' ' 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  I  made  no 
answer,  though  I  might  have  told  him  I  had 
found  a  boot-black  who  had  a  big,  warm 
heart  even  if  he  had  no  sweetheart.  Very 
abruptly  he  said : 

**You  came  over  on  the  boat;  what  kind 
of  a  land  is  it  over  across  the  river  ? ' ' 

"It  is  very  pleasant  in  the  countr3%"  I 
replied. 

"Is  it  a  land  of  pure  delight,  where  saints 
immortal  reign?" 

Having  just  come  from  New  Jersey  where 
the  infamous  race  track,  and  the  more  infa- 
mous rum-traffic  legalized  by  law,  would  sink 
the  whole  State  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  if  it 
were  not  that  it  had  a  life  preserver  in  Ocean 
Grove,  I  was  hardly  prepared  to  vouch  for 
it  being  that  kind  of  a  land. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  I  said. 

"Because  I  hear  Jessie  sing  about  it  so 
much,  and  when  I  asked  her  about  it,  she 


His  Royal  Highness.  153 

said  it's  a  land  where  there's  green  fields, 
and  flowers  that  don't  wither,  and  rivers  of 
delight,  and  where  the  sun  always  shines, 
and  she  wants  to  go  there  so  much.  I  hasn't 
told  anybody  about  it  before,  but  I  eats  as 
little  as  I  can  and  gets  along  with  these 
clothes  what  made  you  laugh  at  me,  and  I'm 
saving  up  my  money  to  take  Jessie  to  that 
land  of  pure  delight  just  as  soon  as  I  gets 
enough.  Does  j-er  know  where  that  land 
is?" 

**I  think  I  do,  my  boy,  but  ^''ou  haven't 
told  me  3^et  who  Jessie  is. ' ' 

''Jessie's  an  angel,  but  she's  sick.  She 
lives  up  in  a  room  in  the  tenement,  and  I 
lives  in  the  garret  near  by.  She  ain't  got 
no  father,  and  her  mother  don't  get  much 
work,  for  she  can't  go  out  to  work  and  take 
care  of  Jessie,  too.  She  cries  a  good  deal 
when  Jessie  don't  see  her,  'cause  she  thinks 
she  is  going  to  lose  Jessie,  but  over  in  that 
land  of  pure  delight,  Jessie  sa^-s  nobody  is 
sick,  and  everybod}'  w^ho  goes  there  gets 
well  right  awa}^,  and,  oh  sir,  I  wants  to 
take  Jessie  there  just  as  soon  as  I  can.  I 
takes  her  a  flower  every  night,  and  then  I 
just  sits  and  looks  at  her  face,  until  m}- 
heart  gets  warmer  and  warmer,  and  do  yer 
think  I  could  come  out  of  such  a  place  and 
then  swear  and  drink,  and  chew  tobacco, 
and   pitch  pennies,  and  tell   lies?     I   tells 


154  The  Children's  Portion. 

Jessie  how  the  bo3^s  calls  me  'His  Royal 
Highness,'  and  she  tells  me  I  musn't  mind 
it,  and  I  musn't  get  mad,  but  just  attend  to 
my  work.  And — and — and,  oh  sir,  I  wanted 
to  tell  somebody  all  this,  for  I  alwa^^s  tries 
to  look  bright  when  I  goes  in  to  see  Jessie, 
and  not  let  her  know  I  am  fretting  about 
anything;  but  I  does  want  to  take  Jessie  to 
the  land  where  flowers  alwa3^s  bloom  and 
people  are  always  well.  That's  so  little  for 
me  to  do  after  all  the  good  that's  come  to 
me  from  knowing  Jessie.  But,  I  begs  yer 
pardon  for  keeping  yer  so  long,  and  I  thanks 
yer  for  letting  me  tell  yer  about  Jessie. ' ' 

Ah,  the  bo3^s  named  him  better  than  they 
knew,  for  here  was  a  prince  in  truth,  and 
despite  his  rags  "His  Royal  Highness"  was 
a  more  befitting  name  than  Joe. 

''Where  does  Jessie  live,  my  boy?" 

"Oh,  sir,  yer  isn't  going  to  take  Jessie  to 
that  land  of  pure  delight,  and  spoil  all  my 
pleasure.  I  does  want  to  do  it  myself.  Yer 
won't  be  so  mean  as  that,  after  listening  to 
what  I've  been  telling  yer,  will  yer?" 

"Not  I,  my  boy,  not  I.  Just  let  me  go 
and  see  Jessie  and  her  mother,  and  what- 
ever I  can  do  for  them,  I'll  do  it  through 
you. ' ' 

A  little  persuasion,  and  then  "His  Royal 
Highness"  and  I  made  our  way  to  the  tene- 
ment and  began  climbing  the  stairs.     We 


His  Royal  Highness.  155 

had  gone  up  five  flights  and  were  mounting 
the  sixth,  when  the  boy  stopped  suddenly 
and  motioned  for  me  to  listen.  The  voice 
of  a  woman  reached  my  ear — a  voice  with 
deep  grief  in  every  tone — saying,  **God  is 
our  refuge  and  strength,  a  very  present  help 
in  time  of  trouble. ' '  A  pause — then  a  sob 
— and  the  voice  wailing  rather  than  singing : 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee ; 
Leave,  oh,  leave  me  not  alone, 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring, 
Cover  my  defenceless  head, 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

The  boy  grasped  my  hand  a  moment — 
gasped  out  * 'That's  Jessie's  mother,  some- 
thing's happened" — and  then  bounded  up 
the  stairs  and  into  the  room.  I  followed 
him  and  found  sure  enough  something  had 
happened,  for  Jessie  had  gone  to  the  land  of 
pure  delight,  and  the  mother  stood  weeping 
beside  her  dead.  On  the  face  of  Jessie  lin- 
gered a  smile,  for  she  was  well  at  last.  In 
her  hand  was  a  pure  white  rosebud,  the  last 
flower  Joe  had  carried  to  her  the  evening 
before.  Her  last  message  to  him  was  that 
she  had  gone  to  the  land  of  pure  delight, 
and  for  him  to  be  sure  and  follow  her  there. 

I  draw  the  curtain  over  the  boy's  grief. 


156  The  Children's  Portion. 

His  savings  bought  the  coffin  in  which  Jes- 
sie was  laid  under  the  green  sod.  Where 
' '  His  Royal  Highness' '  is,  must  for  the  pres- 
ent remain  a  secret  between  Joe  and  myself. 
His  face  and  his  feet  are  turned  toward  the 
land  of  pure  delight.  His  heart  is  there 
already.  You  have  his  story,  and  it  may 
help  3^ou  to  remember  that  some  paupers 
wear  fine  linen  and  broadcloth,  while  here 
and  there  a  prince  is  to  be  found  clothed  in 
rags. 


PATIENT  GRISELDA. 

Many  years  ago,  in  a  lovely  country  of 
Italy,  shut  in  by  Alpine  mountains,  there 
lived  a  noble  young  duke,  who  was  lord 
over  all  the  land.  He  was  one  of  a  long 
line  of  good  princes,  and  his  people  loved 
him  dearly.  They  had  only  one  fault  to 
find  with  him,  for  he  made  good  laws,  and 
ruled  them  tenderly;  but  alas!  he  would 
not  marry.  So  his  people  feared  he  would 
not  leave  any  son  to  inherit  his  dukedom. 
Every  morning  his  wise  counsellors  asked 
him  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage,  and  every  morning  the 
young  duke  heard  them  patiently;  and  as 
soon  as  they  had  spoken,  he  answered,  **I 
am  thinking  of  marriage,  my  lords;  but  this 
is  a  matter  which  requires  much  thought." 

Then  he  called  for  his  black  hunting-steed 
and  held  up  his  gloved  hand  for  his  white 
falcon  to  come  and  alight  upon  his  wrist, 
and  off  he  galloped  to  the  hunt,  of  which  he 
was  passionately  fond,  and  which  absorbed 
all  the  time  that  w^as  not  occupied  with  the 
cares  of  his  government. 

But  after  a  while,  his  counsellors  insisted 
on  being  answered  more  fully. 

"Most  dear  prince,"  urged  they,  "only 

157 


158  The  Childrefi's  Portion. 

fancy  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  would  be  if 
you  should  be  taken  from  your  loving  peo- 
ple, and  leave  no  one  in  your  place.  What 
fighting,  and  confusion,  and  anarchy  there 
would  be  over  your  grave !  All  this  could 
never  happen,  if  you  had  a  sweet  wife,  who 
would  bring  you,  from  God,  a  noble  son,  to 
grow  up  to  be  your  successor. ' ' 

The  morning  on  which  they  urged  this 
so  strongl}^,  Duke  Walter  stood  on  the  steps 
of  his  palace,  in  his  hunting-suit  of  green 
velvet,  with  his  beautiful  falcon  perched  on 
his  wrist,  while  a  page  in  waiting  stood  by 
holding  his  horse.  Suddenly  he  faced  about, 
and  looked  full  at  his  advisers. 

"What  you  say  is  very  wise,"  he  an- 
swered. "To-da}^  I  am  going  to  follow 
3^our  advice.     This  is  my  wedding-day." 

Here  all  the  counsellors  stared  at  each 
other  with  round  eyes. 

**Only  you  must  promise  me  one  thing," 
continued  the  duke.  "Whoever  I  marry, 
be  she  duchess  or  beggar,  old  or  young, 
ugly  or  handsome,  not  one  of  you  must  find 
fault  with  her,  but  welcome  her  as  my  wife, 
and  your  honored  lady. ' ' 

All  the  courtiers,  recovering  from  their 
surprise,  cried  out,  ' '  We  w^ill ;  we  promise. ' ' 

Thereupon,  all  the  court  who  were  stand- 
ing about  gave  a  loud  cheer;  and  the  little 
page,  who  held  the  horse's  bridle,  tossed  up 


Patient  Griselda.  159 

his  cap,  and  turned  two  double  somersaults 
on  the  pavement  of  the  court-yard.  Then 
the  duke  leaped  into  his  saddle,  humming  a 
song  of  how  King  Cophetua  wooed  a  beggar 
maid;  tootle-te-tootle  went  the  huntsmens' 
bugles;  clampety-clamp  went  the  horses' 
hoofs  on  the  stones,  and  out  into  the  green 
forest  galloped  the  royal  hunt. 

Now,  in  the  farther  border  of  the  wood 
was  a  little  hut  which  the  hunting-train 
passed  by  daily.  In  this  little  cottage  lived 
an  old  basketmaker  named  Janiculo,  with 
his  only  daughter  Griselda,  the  child  of  his 
old  age.  He  had  also  a  son  Laureo,  who 
was  a  poor  scholar  in  Padua,  studying  hard 
to  get  money  enough  to  make  himself  a 
priest.  But  Laureo  was  nearly  alwa3's  away, 
and  Griselda  took  care  of  her  father,  kept 
the  house,  and  wove  baskets  with  her 
slender,  nimble  fingers,  to  sell  in  the  town 
close  by. 

I  cannot  tell  you  in  words  of  the  loveli- 
ness of  Griselda.  She  was  as  pure  as  the 
dew  which  gemmed  the  forest,  as  sw^eet- 
voiced  as  the  birds,  as  light-footed  and  timid 
as  the  deer  which  started  at  the  hunters' 
coming.  Then  her  heart  w^as  so  tender  and 
good,  she  was  so  meek  and  gentle,  that  to 
love  her  was  of  itself  a  blessing;  and  to  be 
in  her  presence  w^as  like  basking  in  the 
beams  of  the  May  sun. 


i6o  The  Children'' s  Portion, 

This  morning  she  and  her  father  sat  under 
the  tree  by  their  cottage  door,  as  the  hunt- 
ing-train passed  b}^  They  were  weaving 
baskets;  and,  as  they  worked,  they  sang 
together. 

As  the  hunting  party  swept  by,  Griselda 
looked  up,  and  noted  again,  as  had  happened 
several  mornings  before,  that  the  penetrat- 
ing eyes  of  the  handsome  duke  were  fixed 
on  her. 

''I  fear  he  is  angry  that  we  sit  so  near  his 
path,"  mused  Griselda.  "How  his  eyes 
look  into  one's  soul.  His  gaze  really  makes 
me  tremble.  I  will  not  sit  here  on  his 
return,  lest  it  be  displeasing  to  him." 

Before  the  hunt  was  fairly  out  of  sight,  a 
gossiping  neighbor  came  to  the  hut  of  Jani- 
culo,  to  tell  the  good  news.  Now,  indeed, 
the  duke  was  really  going  to  wed.  He  had 
promised  to  bring  a  wife  with  him  when  he 
came  back  from  the  hunt.  People  said  he 
had  ridden  into  the  next  province,  to  ask 
the  hand  of  the  duke's  beautiful  daughter  in 
marriage.  And  it  might  be  depended  on 
he  would  bring  the  bride  home  on  the  milk- 
white  palfrey,  which  one  of  his  squires  had 
led  by  a  silver  bridle. 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  the  trampling 
of  hoofs  told  Griselda  that  the  hunting  party 
were  coming  back ;  and  remembering  what 
the  talkative  neighbor  had  said,  she  thought 


Patient  Griselda,  i6i 

she  would  like  to  take  a  peep  at  the  young 
bride  when  they  passed  on  their  way  to  the 
palace.  She  had  just  been  to  the  well  for 
some  water,  and  she  stood  in  the  doorway, 
with  her  bare,  round  arm  poising  the 
earthen  pitcher  on  her  head,  and  the  rosy 
toes  of  her  little  bare  feet  peeping  from 
beneath  her  brown  gown,  to  watch  the  hunt 
go  by. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  train ;  louder 
and  louder  sounded  the  clatter,  and  full  in 
sight  came  the  duke,  with  the  white  palfrey, 
led  by  its  silver  bridle,  close  beside  him. 
But  the  saddle  was  empty,  and  no  bride  was 
among  the  huntsmen. 

*  *  Can  it  be  possible  the  lady  would  refuse 
him, — so  handsome  and  noble  as  he  looks?" 
thought  Griselda. 

How  astonished  she  was  when  the  duke, 
riding  up  to  the  hut,  asked  for  her  father. 
She  was  pale  with  fright,  lest  their  humble 
presence  had  in  some  way  offended  the 
prince;  and,  all  in  a  tremble,  ran  in  to  call 
old  Janiculo.  He  came  out,  as  much  puz- 
zled and  frightened  as  his  daughter.  '  Xook 
up,  Janiculo,"  said  the  duke,  graciously. 
"You  have  heard,  perhaps,  that  to-day  is 
my  wedding-day.  With  your  good  will,  I 
propose  to  take  to  wife  your  daughter  Grisel- 
da.    Will  you  give  her  to  me  in  marriage?' ' 

If  a  thunder-bolt  had  struck  the  earth  at 


iGz  TJie  Childr ell's  Portion. 

old  Janiculo's  feet,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  stunned.  He  gazed  at  the  earth,  the 
sky,  and  into  his  lord's  face,  who  had  to  re- 
peat his  question  three  times,  before  the  old 
man  could  speak. 

* '  I  crave  your  lordship's  pardon, ' '  he  stam- 
mered at  length.  "It  is  not  for  me  to  give 
an3^thing  to  3'our  lordship.  All  that  is  in 
your  kingdom  belongs  to  yourself.  And  my 
daughter  is  only  a  part  of  your  kingdom. ' ' 

And  when  he  had  said  this,  he  did  not 
know  whether  he  was  dreaming  or  awake. 

Griselda  had  modestly  sta3'ed  in-doors; 
but  now  the}^  called  her  out,  and  told  her 
she  was  to  be  the  duke's  bride.  All  amazed, 
she  suffered  them  to  mount  her  on  the  snow- 
white  steed,  and  lead  her  beside  the  duke, 
to  the  ro)' al  palace.  All  along  the  road  the 
people  had  gathered,  and  vshouts  rent  the 
air ;  and  at  the  palace  gates  the  horses'  feet 
sank  to  the  fetlocks  in  roses,  which  had 
been  strewn  in  their  pathway.  Everywhere 
the  people's  joy  burst  bounds,  that  now 
their  prince  had  taken  a  bride.  As  for 
Griselda,  she  rode  along,  still  clad  in  her 
russet  gown,  her  large  eyes  looking  down- 
ward, while  slow  tears,  unseen  by  the  crowd, 
ran  over  her  cheeks,  caused  half  by  fear  and 
half  b)'  wonder  at  what  had  happened. 
Not  once  did  she  look  into  her  lord's  face, 
till   the   moment   when   they    reached  the 


Patie7it  Griselda,  163 

palace  steps;  and  leaping  lightly  from  his 
horse,  Duke  Walter  took  her  from  the  pal- 
frey in  his  own  royal  arms.  Then  he  said, 
"How  say' St  thou,  Griselda?  Wilt  be  my 
true  wife,  subject  to  my  will,  as  a  dutiful 
wife  should  be?" 

And  looking  in  his  face,  she  said  sol- 
emnly, as  if  it  were  her  marriage  vow,  "I 
will  be  my  lord's  faithful  ser\-ant,  obedient 
in  all  things." 

Then  they  brought  rich  robes  to  put  on 
Griselda,  and  the  priest  pronounced  the 
wedding  ceremony,  and  the  bridal  feast 
w^as  eaten,  and  patient  Griselda  became  a 
great  duchess. 

For  a  time  all  went  on  happily  in  the 
country  of  Saluzzo,  where  Duke  Walter 
held  reign.  The  people  loved  the  meek 
duchess  no  less  that  she  was  lowly  born ; 
and  when  two  beautiful  twin  babes  were 
born  to  the  duke,  a  boy  and  girl,  the  joy 
w^as  unbounded  all  over  the  kingdom. 
Walter,  too,  was  very  joyful;  or,  he  would 
have  been  very  happy,  if  a  demon  of  dis- 
trust had  not  been  growing  up  in  his  heart 
ever  since  he  had  married  the  beautiful 
Griselda.  He  saw  how  gentle  she  was,  and 
how  obedient  to  him  in  all  things,  and  he 
was  all  the  time  uncertain  whether  this 
yielding  spirit  was  caused  by  love  of  him, 
or  by  gratitude  at  the  high  place  to  which 


164  The  Childreii^s  Portio7i. 

he  had  lifted  her,  and  the  grandeur  with 
which  he  had  surrounded  her.  He  remem- 
bered the  vow  she  had  taken  when  she 
looked  into  his  eyes  and  said,  "I  will  be  my 
lord's  faithful  serv^ant,  obedient  in  all 
things,"  and  thinking  of  it,  day  by  day, 
there  arose  in  his  heart  a  desire  to  put  her 
love  and  faith  to  the  test. 

The  resolution  to  which  he  came  was  so 
cruel,  that  we  can  scarcely  believe  he  could 
have  loved  Griselda,  and  had  the  heart  to 
attempt  to  carry  out  his  design.  He  took 
into  his  counsel  only  an  old  servant  named 
Furio,  and  to  him  he  gave  the  execution  of 
his  plan. 

One  day  Griselda  sat  in  her  chamber, 
caressing  and  playing  with  her  two  babes. 
She  had  never  intrusted  their  care  and  rear- 
ing to  any  but  herself,  and  her  chief  delight 
had  been  to  tend  them,  to  note  their  pretty 
ways,  to  rock  them  asleep,  and  to  watch 
their  rosy  slumbers.  At  this  moment,  tired 
out  with  play,  her  noble  boy,  the  younger 
Walter,  lay  in  his  cradle  at  her  foot;  and 
the  sweet  girl,  with  her  father's  dark  eyes, 
lay  on  the  mother's  bosom,  while  she  sang 
softly  this  cradle  song,  to  lull  them  to  sleep : 

"Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  when  you  do  rise; 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And    I  will  sing  a  lullaby ; 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 


Patiejit  Griselda,  165 

"Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you, 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you ; 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby ; 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. ' ' 

While  the  young  duchess  sang  the  last 
notes  of  her  song,  Furio  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  Some  remorse  for  what  he  was 
to  do,  made  the  water  for  an  instant  dim 
his  eyes,  as  he  watched  the  group.  But 
he  had  sworn  to  do  his  lord's  bidding,  and 
he  only  hesitated  for  a  moment.  I^ooking 
up,  Griselda  saw  him,  and  greeted  him  with 
a  smile. 

"Enter,  good  Furio,"  she  said.  "See, 
they  are  both  asleep.  When  he  sleeps,  my 
boy  is  most  like  his  father;  but  awake,  my 
girl's  dark  eyes  recall  him  most.  Have  you 
any  message  from  my  lord,  Furio?" 

"My  lady,"  answered  the  old  man,  hesi- 
tatingly, "I  have  a  message.  It  is  some- 
what hard  to  deliver,  but  the  duke  must 
have  his  own  wdll.  My  lord  fears  you  are 
too  much  w4th  the  babes ;  that  you  are  not 
quite  a  fitting  nurse  for  them.  Not  that  he 
fears  your  low"  birth  wall  taint  the  manners 
of  his  children,  but  he  fears  the  people 
might  fancy  it  was  so,  and  he  must  consult 
the  wishes  of  his  people. ' ' 

"If  my  lord  thinks  so,"  answered  Gri- 
selda, "he  may  find  nurses  for  his  babes.    It 


1 66  The  Children's  Poi^tioit, 

seems  as  if  no  love  could  be  so  dear  as  mine. 
But  perchance  he  is  right.  My  ways  are 
uncouth  beside  those  of  royal  blood.  I  will 
give  my  babes  a  better  teacher.  Only  I  may 
see  them  often,  and  love  them  still  as  dear, 
can  I  not,  Furio?" 

"That  is  not  my  lord's  wish,  madam," 
said  Furio,  not  daring  to  look  full  at  the 
duchess,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  "The  duke  fears  that  even  now 
the  people  murmur  that  an  heir  of  base 
origin  shall  grow  up  to  rule  over  them. 
And  he  is  forced  to  study  the  will  of  his  peo- 
ple. So  he  has  sent  me  to  take  away  the 
babes,  and  dispose  of  them  according  to  his 
ro3^al  orders." 

When  he  had  said  this,  Griselda  looked 
at  him  as  one  who  did  not  understand  the 
language  which  he  spake.  All  the  blood 
forsook  her  cheek,  her  strength  gave  way, 
and  falling  at  the  feet  of  the  old  servant, 
still  holding  her  baby  clasped  to  her  breast, 
she  looked  up  in  his  face  imploringly,  like 
the  deer  who  lies  under  the  knife  of  the 
hunter. 

But  when  Furio  began  to  take  up  the 
babes,  the  boy  from  his  nest  among  his 
cradle  pillows,  the  girl  from  her  soft  refuge 
in  the  mother's  bosom, — then  the  sorrow  of 
Griselda  would  have  melted  the  tough  flint 
to  tears.     She  prayed  with  moving  words, 


Patient  Griselda,  167 

slie  shed  such  floods  of  tears,  she  gave  such 
piteous  cries  of  agony,  that  Furio,  tearing 
the  children  away  with  one  strong  effort, 
ran  from  the  room  with  the  screaming  in- 
fants, his  own  face  drenched  with  weeping. 
When  the  duke  heard  of  all  this,  though  it 
did  not  move  him  from  his  obstinac}'  of  pur- 
pose, he  3^et  grieved  in  secret,  and  wondered 
if  Griselda' s  love  could  outlast  this  trial. 

The  twin  babes,  torn  so  rudel}^  from  their 
mother,  were  sent  to  a  noble  sister  of  the 
duke,  who  dwelt  in  Pavia;  but  no  word  was 
told  to  Griselda  of  their  fate;  and  she,  poor 
mother,  submissive  to  her  husband's  will, 
because  she  believed  it  supreme,  like  God's, 
dared  not  ask  after  them,  lest  she  should 
hear  that  they  were  slain. 

When  the  duke  saw  how  Griselda  had  no 
reproaches,  nothing  but  grief,  to  oppose  to 
his  will,  even  his  jealousy  was  forced  to 
confess  that  her  faith  had  stood  the  test. 
Whenever  he  looked  on  her,  her  gentle 
patience  moved  his  heart  to  pit3^,  and  many 
times  he  half  repented  his  cruelt3\ 

Month  after  month,  and  5^ear  after  3'ear 
went  by,  and  again  and  again  did  this  demon 
of  vsuspicion  stir  the  duke  to  some  trial  of 
his  wife's  obedience  and  patience.  He  drove 
out  the  aged  Janiculo  from  the  comfortable 
lodgment  in  the  palace  in  which  Griselda 
had  bestowed  him,  and  forced  him  to  return 


1 68  The  Childreii's  Portion. 

to  tlie  hut  where  he  had  lived  before  his 
daughter's  greatness.  And  though  Gri- 
selda's  paling  face  and  sad  eye  told  her 
sorrow,  she  uttered  no  word  of  complaint 
or  anger  against  the  duke. 

"  Is  he  not  my  liege  lord  ?' '  she  said  to  her 
own  heart,  when  it  sometimes  rose  in  bitter 
complainings,  "and  did  I  not  swear  to  obey 
his  will  in  all  things?" 

At  last  the  day  came  when  they  had  been 
wedded  twelve  years.  Long  ago  had  Gri- 
selda  won  the  hearts  of  the  people  by  her 
gentle  manners,  her  sweet,  sad  face,  her 
patient  ways.  If  Walter's  heart  had  not  been 
made  of  senseless  stone,  he  would  now  have 
been  content.  But  in  his  scheming  brain  he 
had  conceived  one  final  test,  one  trial  more, 
from  which,  if  Griselda's  patience  came  out 
unmoved,  it  would  place  her  as  the  pearl  of 
women,  high  above  compare. 

On  this  wedding  morn,  then,  he  came  into 
her  bower,  and  in  cold  speech,  thus  spoke  to 
her, — "Griselda,  thou  must  have  guessed 
that  for  many  years  I  have  bewailed  the 
caprice  which  led  me  to  take  thee,  low-born, 
and  rude  in  manners,  as  my  wife.  At  last 
my  people's  discontent,  and  my  own  heart, 
have  told  me  that  I  must  take  a  bride  who 
can  share  fitly  my  state,  and  bring  me  a  noble 
heir.  Even  now  from  Pavia,  my  sister's 
court,  my  young  bride,  surpassing  beautiful, 


Patient  Griselda.  169 

is  on  her  way  hither.  Canst  though  be  con- 
tent to  go  back  to  thy  father,  and  leave  me 
free  to  marry  her?" 

"My  dear  lord,"  answered  Griselda, 
meekly,  "in  all  things  I  have  kept  my  vow. 
I  should  have  been  most  happy  if  love  for 
me  had  brought  thy  heart  to  forget  my  low 
station.  But  in  all  things  I  am  content.  Only 
one  last  favor  I  ask  of  thee.  Thy  new^  w^ife 
wall  be  young,  high-bred,  impatient  of  re- 
straint, tender  to  rude  sorrow.  Do  not  put 
on  her  faith  such  trials  as  I  have  borne,  lest 
her  heart  bend  not  under  them,  but  break  at 
once. ' ' 

When  she  had  done  speaking,  she  turned 
to  her  closet,  w^here  all  these  years  she  had 
kept  the  simple  russet  gown  w^hich  she  had 
w^orn  on  the  day  Duke  Walter  wooed  her, 
and  laying  aside  her  velvet  robes,  her  laces, 
and  jewels,  she  put  it  on,  went  before  the 
duke  again,  ready  to  depart  from  the  palace 
forever.  But  he  had  one  request  to  make  of 
her.  It  was  that  she  would  stay  to  superin- 
tend the  bride's  coming,  to  see  that  the  feast 
was  prepared,  the  wedding  chamber  ready, 
and  the  guests  made  welcome,  because  none 
so  well  as  she  knew  the  management  of  the 
affairs  in  the  palace. 

Then  Griselda  went  among  the  servants 
and  saw  that  the  feast  was  made,  and  all 
things  were  in  order,  concealing  her  aching 


I  JO  The  Oiildreii's  Portion. 

heart  under  a  face  which  tried  to  smile. 
When  at  evening  she  heard  the  fickle  people 
shouting  in  the  streets,  and  saw  the  roses 
strewn  as  they  had  been  on  her  wedding-day, 
then  the  tears  began  to  fall,  and  her  soul 
sank  within  her.  But  at  that  moment  the 
duke  called,  ' '  Griselda,  where  is  Griselda ?' ' 

On  this,  she  came  forth  into  the  great  feast 
chamber  from  whence  he  called.  At  the  head 
of  the  room  stood  the  duke,  still  handsome 
and  youthful ;  and  on  each  side  of  him  a 
noble  youth  and  maiden,  both  fresh,  bloom- 
ing and  beautiful. 

A  sudden  faintness  overcame  Griselda  at 
the  sight.  She  grew  dizzy,  and  would  have 
fallen,  if  Duke  Walter  had  not  quickly 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Lookup,  Griselda,  dear  wife,"  he  cried, 
* '  for  thou  art  my  dear  wife,  and  all  I  shall 
ever  claim.  I  have  tried  enough  thy  faith 
and  patience.  Know,  truly,  that  I  love  thee 
most  dear;  and  these  are  thy  children  re- 
turned to  thee,  whom  for  so  many  years  I 
have  cruelly  kept  hid  from  thee. ' ' 

When  Griselda  heard  these  words,  as  one 
who  hears  in  a  dream,  she  fell  into  a  deep 
swoon,  from  which  for  a  time  neither  the 
voice  of  her  husband, nor  the  tears  and  kisses 
of  her  children,  could  rouse  her.  But  when 
vshe  was  brought  back  to  life,  to  find  herself 
in  the  arms  of  her  lord,  and  meet  the  loving 


Patient  Griselda,  171 

looks  of  her  children,  she  was  speedily  her 
calm  and  gentle  self  again. 

Then  they  led  her  to  her  chamber,  and  put 
on  her  richest  robes,  and  a  crown  of  jewels 
on  her  head;  and,  radiant  with  happiness, 
all  the  beauty  of  her  girlhood  seemed  to  come 
back  to  her  face.  Nay,  a  greater  beauty  than 
that  of  girlhood ;  for,  softened  by  heavenly 
patience,  her  face  was  sweet  as  an  angel's. 
From  that  time  forth  the  duke  strove,  by 
every  look  and  deed,  and  tender  word,  to 
make  amends  for  her  hard  trials.  And  to 
all  ages  will  her  story  be  known,  and  in  all 
poetry  will  she  be  enshrined  as  the  sweet 
image  of  wifely  patience,  the  incomparable 
Griselda. 


LET  IT  ALONE. 

BY  MARY  E.    BAMFORD. 

''Hold  him  tight,  Sid!'^ 

''I'm  a-holding,  Dave!" 

The  two-year  colt,  Rix,  lay  on  the  ground. 
Sid  was  holding  tightly  to  the  lasso,  while 
Dave  was  tr3nng  to  put  the  points  of  a  pair 
of  small  nippers  into  Rix's  right  eye.  Rix 
had  objected  very  much,  but  Dave  was  de- 
termined; he  knew  something  was  wrong 
with  that  eye. 

"There!"  said  Dave  at  last,  holding  up 
the  nippers.  "See?  Fox-tail,  just's  I 
thought.     Got  it  in  his  eye." 

Dave  jumped  up, holding  the  piece  of  fox- 
tail grass  3^et  in  the  nippers.  Sid  relaxed  the 
lasso,  and  Rix  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  The 
colt  shut  his  eyes,  and  shook  his  head,  as  if 
wondering  whether  the  agonizing  fox-tail 
was  really  out  at  last. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Sid. 

"I  know^ed  that  was  it,"  asserted  Dave. 
**1  see  something  was  the  matter  with  his 
eye  when  he  come  in  this  noon." 

Rix,  released,  trotted  away. 

"Guess  he'll  stay  out  of  fox-tail  after 
this,"  said  Sid. 

"I  dunno, "  said  Dave.     ^'Critters  walk 


Lei  It  Alo7ie.  173 

right  into  trouble  with  their  eyes  wide  open. 
I'm  going  to  make  bread  now." 

Sid  followed  into  the  shanty,  and  watched 
Dave  stir  together  sour  milk  and  soda  for 
bread.  The  ranch  was  away  in  the  hills, 
much  too  far  from  any  town  for  visits  from 
the  baker's  wagon.  The  treeless  hills  were 
the  ranging-place  of  cattle  and  horses.  Far 
aw^ay  in  the  valley  Sid  could  see  the  river- 
bed. It  was  dry  now,  but  Dave  said  that  if 
one  dug  down  anywhere  in  the  sand,  one 
could  find  a  current  of  water  a  few  feet  below 
the  surface.  Dave  always  knew  things.  Sid 
liked  to  hear  him  talk.  All  this  country 
was  new  to  Sid, 

*  *  Does  your  bread  always  rise  ? "  he  asked. 

*'If  it  don't  I  give  it  to  the  chickens," 
said  Dave,  putting  in  some  more  soda. 
''Tried  yeast-cakes,  but  I  couldn't  make 
them  work. ' ' 

**Is  fox-tail  grass  much  bother  to  folks?" 
questioned  Sid,  seeing  Rix  from  the  door. 

**Awful!"  said  Dave.  ''Gets  in  the  hogs' 
eyes,  and  the  sheep's  too.  Sheep-men  try  to 
burn  the  fox-tail  off  the  pasture  land,  and 
the  fire  runs  into  the  farmers'  grain,  lots  of 
times.  That's  what  makes  farmers  hate 
sheep-men  so.  Folks  down  'n  the  valley 
round  up  the  hogs  every  June  to  pick  fox- 
tail out  of  their  eyes.  If  they  didn't,  half 
the  hogs'd  go  blind." 


174  ^^^^  Children's  Portion. 

"Round  up?"  questioned  Sid. 

"Drive  'em  together,"  explained  Dave. 
"You'll  see  a  round-up  of  my  cattle  'fore 
long.  Got  to  go  out  and  hunt  the  hills  for 
'em,  and  drive  'em  away  down  to  the  rail- 
road. The  other  men  are  going  to  do  it  on 
their  ranches  too.  Takes  about  a  day  for  us 
little  cattle-men  to  round  up,  and  then  about 
two  days  more  to  drive  them  down  to  the 
railroad.     Big  cattle-men  it  takes  longer." 

"You  like  it?"  asked  Sid. 

Dave  laughed. 

"Well  'nough,"  he  said.  "We  stop,  you 
know,  and  have  a  good  time  on  the  road 
every  little  while. ' ' 

"What  do  you  do?"  questioned  Sid. 

"Oh!  drink — some,"  answered  Dave. 

"You  don't  though — do  3^ou?"  asked 
Sid. 

"Oh!  well — some,"  said  Dave  slowly, 
as  he  poked  the  fire.  "Have  to  drink  with 
other  men,  you  know.  They  wouldn't 
think  I  was  friendly  if  I  didn't." 

Sid  looked  troubled.  Dave  never  used 
to  drink  when  he  worked  for  Sid's  father 
two  or  three  years  before,  on  the  fruit  ranch 
up  country. 

Dave's  bread  w^as  done.  There  were 
yellow  vStreaks  in  it,  but  Sid  ate  it. 

"The  principal  thing's  to  get  something  to 
eat  when  your  ranching,"  apologized  Dave. 


Let  It  Alojie.  175 

About  a  week  after  this  the  round-up 
began. 

"You  take  Rix,"  said  Dave.  "I'll  take 
another  horse,  and  we'll  hunt  the  cattle 
up." 

In  and  out  of  the  gullies  they  rode,  here 
and  there  through  the  hills.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  all  the  cattle  that  were  to  be 
vShipped  were  together.  The  moon  rose 
full  and  bright,  making  the  hills  almost  as 
light  as  day.  Sid  and  Dave  stood  by  the 
shanty,  looking  back  at  the  corral,  where 
the  cattle  w^ere. 

"We'll  start  early  to-morrow  morning, 
Sid,"  said  Dave.  "Guess  we'll  meet  some 
of  the  other  ranchers  on  the  road,  most 
likely.  You  tired?  Musn't  let  one  day's 
riding  use  you  up.  We'll  be  two  days 
going  down,  and  one  coming  back.  We 
can  ride  nights  some,  maybe.  It'll  be 
pleasant." 

Next  night  they  were  part  way  down  the 
hills,  far  enough  so  that  they  w^ere  leaving 
the  bare  portions  behind,  and  entering  the 
live-oak  districts.  Sid  stood  in  the  moon- 
light by  an  oak,  and  watched  some  of  the 
men.  They  sat  around  a  little  fire,  and 
played  cards  and  drank.  Out  in  the  moon- 
light were  other  men,  taking  charge  of  the 
droves  of  cattle.  Sid  could  see  horns  and 
heads,  and  once    in  a  while  a  man  would 


176  The  Childre7i's  Portio7t, 

come  to  the  fire  and  drink  and  joke  with 
the  others.  Dave  came  after  a  time.  He 
saw  Sid  with  Rix  by  the  tree.  Sid  had 
tied  the  horse  there. 

"Come  over  to  the  fire,  and  get  warm," 
said  Dave. 

Sid  went.  One  of  the  men  held  out  a 
bottle  to  Dave.     He  took  it,  and  drank. 

* '  Give  some  to  the  youngster, ' '  said  the 
man  good-naturedly.  "He's  tired  driving 
cattle,  I  reckon." 

Dave  looked  at  Sid,  but  Sid  shook  his 
head. 

"Too  fine  to  drink  with  us  cowboys?" 
asked  the  man  by  the  fire. 

"Let  him  alone,"  said  Dave.  "He  ain't 
going  to  drink  if  he  don't  want  to." 

Sid  went  back  to  his  tree.  He  put  an  old 
gray  quilt  around  him,  and  lay  down. 
Then  he  remembered.  He  rose  again,  and 
knelt  in  the  dark  by  the  tree  trunk.  He 
asked  God  to  keep  the  cattle  from  injuring 
anybody,  and  to  keep  the  men  and  Dave 
from  becoming  very  drunk.    Sid  was  afraid. 

He  lay  down  again.  Once  in  a  while  he 
looked  over  toward  the  fire.  Dave  came  to 
it  sometimes,  and  always  one  or  the  other 
of  the  men  offered  him  a  bottle.  Some- 
times Dave  acted  as  though  he  were  going 
to  refuse;  but  the  other  men  always  joked, 
and  then  Dave  drank. 


Let  It  Alone.  177 

"Why  doesn't  he  .stay  away  from  the  fire 
if  he  doesn't  want  to  drink?"  thought  Sid. 
"Maybe  he's  cold.     I  wonder  if  mother — " 

He  went  to  sleep. 

Next  day  they  drove  the  cattle  again  a 
long,  long  way.  At  last  they  came  to  a 
town.  There  was  the  railroad,  and  there 
were  the  stock  cars.  When  the  cattle  were 
on  board,  Dave  and  Sid  jumped  on  their 
horses. 

"Want  to  stay  in  town  over  night?" 
asked  Dave.  "Like  a  little  change  from 
the  hills?" 

"Let's  go  and  get  something  to  eat," 
said  one  of  the  other  men,  who  rode  up. 
"I  want  somethin'  different  from  ranch 
cookin'.     Ain't  a  first-class  cook  myself." 

Sid  was  glad  to  eat  bread  that  did  not 
have  yellow  streaks  in  it.  He  was  glad 
to  have  some  meat,  too.  But,  after  eating, 
the  other  man  said  to  Dave: 

"Come  take  a  drink." 

They  were  on  the  sidewalk,  untying 
their  horses.  Sid  pulled  Dave  by  the 
sleeve. 

"Don't,"  whispered  Sid. 

Dave  stopped  and  smiled. 

"Come  on  !"  said  the  other  man. 

"I  don't  get  down  to  town  only  once  in 
awhile,"  said  Dave.  "Never  drink  other 
times,  Sid." 


1/8  The  Childre7i's  Portiojt. 

He  went  with  the  man.  Sid  waited;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  to  wait  a  long 
time. 

"Round-ups  are  bad  things  for  Dave," 
thought  he.     ' '  Mother 'd  be  sorry. ' ' 

There  was  a  great  noise  from  the  saloon 
on  the  corner.  Pretty  soon  Dave  came  out. 
He  looked  verj^  white  as  he  came  to  the 
place  w^here  the  boy  waited.  Dave  leaned 
against  Rix,  and  groaned. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Sid  in 
alarm. 

"It's  my  arm,"  said  Dave,  growing 
whiter.  "There  was  a  fight — in  that 
place — somehow.  They  knocked  against 
me.  I  fell.  One  man  fell  on  top  of  me 
and  my  arm  was  sort  of  doubled  up  under 
me.  It  hurts — awful.  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  .sprained — or  broken — or — " 

They  had  to  staj^  in  town  a  Aveek  before 
they  could  go  back  to  the  ranch.  When 
they  went  back  Dave  had  his  arm  in  a 
sling. 

"It's  a  good  thing  the  twenty-three  tons 
of  hay  are  in,"  said  Sid.  "You  couldn't 
do  much  with  that  arm." 

Dave  did  not  say  anything. 

Next  Sunday  night  Sid  sat  in  the  door  of 
the  shanty  on  the  ranch.  He  was  singing 
to  himself  a  little.  "Safely  through  an- 
other   week,"  he   hummed.     His    mother 


Let  It  Alone.  179 

always  sang  that  Sundays  at   home.     Sid 
was  a  bit  homesick  Sundays  in  the  hills. 

Dave  came  and  sat  down  by  Sid,  and 
looked  out  at  the  sunset  and  the  dry  river 
away  down  in  the  valley.  Rix  came  trot- 
ting up  near  the  shanty. 

"He's  a  smart  colt — ain't  he?"  said 
Sid.  "He  hasn't  been  bothered  with  fox- 
tail since  that  day  you'n  and  I  took  that 
piece  out  of  his  eye.  He's  kept  his  eyes 
away  from  the  stuff,  whether  he's  meant  to 
or  not.  Do  you  suppose  he  has  as  much 
sense  as  that?" 

"Critters  ain't  the  only  things  that  walk 
into  trouble  with  their  eyes  open,"  said 
Dave.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  let  Rix  be  smarter 
than  I  be.  I'm  goin'  to  keep  out  of  trouble, 
too,  Sid.  I  ain't  goin'  to  drink  no  more, 
ever. ' ' 

"Not  round-up  times?"  asked  Sid. 

"Not  round-up  times,  nor  other  times,  if 
God  will  help  me,"  said  Dave,  soberly. 

"He  will,"  said  Sid.  "Oh,  I'm  so 
glad!" 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  HIS  MEMORY. 

It  was  on  a  morning  of  May,  1613,  that 
a  lad}?-,  still  young,  might  be  seen,  followed 
by  her  two  children,  going  toward  the 
cemetery  of  a  village  near  Haerlem.  The 
pale  cheeks  of  this  lady,  her  e5'es  red  with 
weeping,  her  very  melancholy  face,  bespoke 
one  of  those  deep  sorrows  over  which  Time 
might  fling  its  flowers,  but  it  w^ould  be  all 
in  vain.  Her  children,  the  elder  of  whom 
was  barely  four  years  old,  accompanied  her, 
with  the  carelessness  natural  to  their  age. 
Indeed,  they  were  astonished  to  see  their 
noble  mansion  still  in  mourning,  and  their 
mother  and  themselves  in  mourning  also, 
though  a  melancholy  voice  had  said  to 
them  one  day,  when  they  were  shown  a 
bier  covered  with  funereal  pall,  "Children, 
3^ou  have  no  more  a  father. ' ' 

A  month  after  this  they  were  playing  as 
gaily  as  ever.  Can  it  be  that  the  griefs  of 
our  early  years  are  so  terrible  that  heaven 
will  not  permit  them  to  dwell  in  remem- 
brance? It  ma}^  be  so;  but  at  all  events 
those  children  forgot  for  whom  they  had 
been  put  into  mourning. 

As  that  lady  arrived  at  the  little  ceme- 
tery gate,  the  passers-by  asked  aloud  (for 
180 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  i8i 

curiosity  respects  neither  modesty  nor 
grief)  who  might  be  that  lady  who  passed 
on  so  sadl}^  and  who  it  seemed  had  good 
cause  for  her  sadness. 

And  an  old  beggar-woman  said,  ''That 
lady  passing  by  is  the  widow  of  John 
Durer,  who  died  this  three  month?  gone, 
and  who  was  in  his  time  Minister  to  his 
Majesty  the  Emperor." 

II. 

John  Durer  belonged  to  the  family  of  a 
poor  shepherd.  He  worked  hard  as  a 
scholar,  but  even  when  he  was  at  play  he 
showed  a  violent  disposition  to  domineer 
over  the  rest.  He  seemed  to  be  devoured 
with  ambition :  at  all  events  he  carried  off 
every  prize  at  school.  By  the  time  he  was 
fifteen  he  was  the  admiration,  he  was  the 
pride,  of  all  his  masters.  But  John  was  not 
loved  by  his  schoolmates;  he  displayed  a 
vanity  which  repelled  them,  which  some- 
times provoked  them.  He  made  few  friend- 
ships, spoke  freely  with  few,  and  looked 
haughtily  down  on  such  of  his  little  com- 
panions as  were  less  happily  gifted  than  he 
w^as.  His  words  were  short,  his  look  was 
cold,  and  the  pride  in  which  he  shut  him- 
self up  on  purpose,  made  him  unapproach- 
able.    He  lived  by  himself. 


1 82  The  Children'' s  Portioji. 

One  evening  this  young  Durer,  feeling, 
even  more  than  usuallj^,  the  necessity  of 
solitude  and  meditation,  went  out  into  the 
country',  dreaming,  no  doubt,  of  the  grand- 
eur to  which  his  pride  aspired,  and  which 
he  was  hopeless  of  ever  reaching;  for  his 
face  was  sad,  and  he  walked  with  a  slow 
step,  as  does  some  discouraged  traveler  on 
a  road  without  end,  toward  something  in 
the  distance  that  perpetually  escapes 
him.  At  last  he  stopped  in  a  hollow^  called 
the  Valley  of  Bushes,  on  account  of  the 
gigantic  white-thorn  trees  that  grew  there. 
He  sat  down  in  their  shadow :  a  small  bird 
was  fluttering  about,  and  singing  blithely 
overhead ;  but  he  did  not  hear  her. 

When  the  storm  is  loud,  all  natural 
sounds  are  silenced.  Thus  it  was  wdth 
Durer;  the  throbbing  of  ambition  in  every 
vein  with  him  absorbed  all  the  sweeter 
melodies  which  should  charm  the  heart 
and  fancy  of  youth. 

He  was  dreaming  of  fame  and  fortune. 
How  to  rise  was  his  sole  thought;  and  it 
was  not  probable,  except  by  some  very  rare 
circumstance  and  chance,  that  his  dream 
should  be  realized ;  for  in  those  days  of  the 
world,  at  least,  it  was  thought  that  a  shep- 
herd's son  should  have  a  shepherd's  tastes. 
The  young  man  did  not  see  a  single  path 
open  in  which  he  could  plant  his  foot — one 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Me^nory.  183 

was  barred  by  wealth,  another  by  position, 
another  by  birth.  All  that  he  could  dream 
of  was  some  blest  chance  that  should  break 
down  for  him  one  of  these  barriers.  He 
was  sullen,  afflicted,  ashamed,  indignant, 
and  alarmed, — above  all,  when  he  thought 
of  one  thing — that  thing  was  his  pov- 
erty. 

For  this  had  the  shepherd  of  the  village 
near  Haerlem  labored  twenty  years;  for 
this  had  he  spent  the  savings  of  those  twenty 
years,  in  giving  an  education  to  this  young 
nobleman. 

John  was  buried  deep  in  these  reveries — 
too  deep  for  his  age — when  some  one  came 
np  smiling  to  him.  This  was  a  little,  fat, 
chubby-faced  man,  as  round  as  a  barrel, 
with  a  low  brown  hat  on  his  head.  He  had 
on  a  large  brown  cloak,  a  handsome  yellow 
doublet,  black  breeches  in  the  old  fashion, 
and  square-toed  glossy  shoes,  with  large 
roses  of  purple  ribbon.  The  glance  of  this 
man,  whose  hair  was  already  becoming 
gray,  was  keen  and  penetrating.  Though 
his  lips  were  thick,  there  was  an  open, 
honest  expression  about  his  mouth;  while 
his  clear  eyes  and  sharply-cut  eyebrows 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  man  of  strict  upright- 
ness. 

"I  do  not  like  to  see  youth  melancholy," 
said  the  little  man,  coming  close  to  John 


184  The  Childj^en^ s  Portion. 

Durer,  and  examining  him — "it  is  a  sign  of 
the  disease  too  common  among  3^oung  peo- 
ple— which  is  a  desire  to  be  something  and 
somebody  before  the}^  are  well  born  into 
the  world.  I  would  bet  my  fortune  against 
this  boy's  dreams  that  he  is  already  an  old 
scholar.  Plague  take  those  parents  who  fill 
their  children's  heads  with  learning  ere 
they  have  made  men  of  them !  who  neglect 
all  care  to  form  a  character,  and  think  only 
how  to  bring  forward  the  understanding ! — 
Vanity  kills  right  feeling!" 

Mumbling  thus  to  himself,  the  little  man 
went  up  to  John,  and  began  to  question 
him.  The  dreamer  started  as  if  a  thunder- 
bolt had  fallen  close  to  his  elbow. 

**  Young  man,  how  far  is  it  from  the  earth 
to  the  sun?" 

"Thirty-three  millions  of  leagues,"  re- 
plied John,  without  the  least  hesitation. 

"As  if  I  did  not  know  that  he  would 
know,"  said  the  little  man  to  himself,  with 
a  smile. 

"And  how  long  would  it  take  a  hum- 
ming-bird who  could  fly  a  league  in  a 
minute  to  get  there!" 

"Twenty-eight  years,  sir,"  was  Durer' s 
answer. 

"When  one  calculates  so  well,  and  so 
rapidly,  no  wonder  one  is  melancholy," 
said  the  little  man  to  himself.    Then  going 


The  Mail  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  185 

on — "Who  was  the  greatest  man  of  anti- 
quity?" asked  he. 

* 'Alexander. " 

"Who  was  the  wisest?" 

"Socrates." 

"Who  was  the  proudest?*' 

"Diogenes." 

"Which  of  these  do  you  like  the  best?" 

"Alexander." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  neighbor  who 
obliges  his  neighbor?" 

"I  think  that  the  first  has  the  advantage 
of  the  second. ' ' 

The  little  gentleman  considered  a  moment, 
and  began  again — 

"What  is  your  father's  trade,  young 
man?" 

This  simple  question  made  Durer  blush. 
He  did  not  say  a  word  in  answer.  The 
little  man,  who  was  very  clear-sighted, 
said — "This  young  fellow  is  ashamed  to 
own  that  he  belongs  to  a  poor  shepherd  in 
the  village  hard  by.  Bad  heart — strong 
head — detestable  nature !  This  bo}^  will 
never  make  anything  but  a  diplomatist. ' ' 
Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  said 
to  himself — "But  it's  of  no  consequence. " 

The  end  was,  that  young  Durer  went 
back  to  the  cottage  wild  with  joy.  He  took 
leave  of  his  father  and  his  mother,  who 
shed  torrents  of  tears  at  his  leaving  them. 


1 86  The  Children's  Portion. 

John  was  turning  his  back  on  the  shep- 
herd's cabin  for  ever:  he  was  to  go  to 
Vienna,  to  finish  his  studies  there.  For 
the  little  man  had  put  into  his  hand  three 
purses  full  of  gold,  and  had  said,  "I  am 
Counsellor  Werter,  favorite  of  his  Majesty 
the  Emperor.  Your  assiduity  in  study 
has  become  known  to  me.  Work  on — for 
aught  you  know,  you  may  be  on  the  high 
road." 

Three  5^ears  afterward,  Durer  entered  the 
office  of  the  Emperor's  secretary.  Eater,  he 
became,  himself,  private  secretary.  Later 
still,  he  received  a  barony  and  a  hand- 
some estate. — So  much  for  the  prophecies, 
so  much  for  the  secret  influence  of  the  Coun- 
sellor Werter ! 

Durer  was  on  the  highway  paved  with 
gold; — but  he  forgot  his  father,  and  he  for- 
got his  mother,  too. 

One  day,  when  Counsellor  Werter  was 
going  to  court,  he  met  Durer  on  the  stair- 
case of  the  palace.     He  said  to  him, — 

"Baron  Durer,  I  sent  yesterday,  in  your 
name,  twelve  thousand  crowns  to  a  certain 
old  shepherd  in  a  village  not  far  from  Haer- 
lem." 

The  Counsellor  said  this  in  rather  a  scorn- 
ful voice;  and  he  saw  that  Baron  Durer 
turned  as  red  as  the  boy  had  done  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Bushes,  on  the  evening  when 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  187 

he  was  asked  what  his  father's  trade  was. 
The  two  men  looked  steadily  at  each  other : 
the  Baron  with  that  hatred  which  is  never 
to  be  appeased — the  Counsellor  with  bitter 
indignation. 

On  the  evening  of  that  very  day,  the 
Emperor  received  his  faithful  old  friend, 
the  incorruptible  Counsellor,  coldl}^  On  the 
morrow,  Werter  was  not  summoned  to  the 
palace — nor  the  day  after.  Disgrace  had 
fallen  on  him.  He  had  nourished  a  ser- 
pent in  his  bosom.  He  left  court,  and  re- 
tired far  away,  to  a  small  estate  which  he, 
too,  chanced  to  possess  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Haerlem. 

III. 

As  to  John  Durer,  he  rose  to  higher  and 
higher  dignities.  The  Emperor,  after  hav- 
ing made  him  minister,  married  him  to  a 
noble  heiress.  About  that  self -same  time, 
the  old  shepherd  and  his  wife  died.  Their 
village  neighbors  accompanied  them  in 
silence  to  the  humble  churchyard.  A  little 
man,  whose  hair  was  now  white  as  snow, 
followed  the  dead  with  his  head  uncovered. 
When  the  priest  had  cast  on  their  coffins 
that  handful  of  dust  which  sounds  so  drear- 
ily, the  old  man  murmured — 

"There  are  bad  sons,  who,  when  they 
become  fortunate,  forget  the  aged  parents 


1 88  The  Children'' s  Portio7i. 

who  cherished  them  when  they  w^ere  chil- 
dren. Ma}^  they  be  requited !  for  of  such  is 
not  the  kingdom  of  heaven." — ^Then  he 
knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  grave  and 
praj^ed. 

This  old  man  was  Counsellor  Werter. 
Wearied  of  the  world,  he  had  retired  into 
obscurity,  after  having  divided  the  larger 
part  of  his  splendid  fortune  among  the  poor. 
He  was  gay,  nimble — in  the  enjo3'ment  of 
robust  health ;  and  many  a  time  would  he 
thank  heaven  that  no  children  had  been 
born  to  him,  when  he  thought  of  the  hard- 
heartedness  of  John  Durer. 

Not  long  after  this,  on  the  spot  where  the 
shepherd's  cabin  had  stood  was  seen  a  mag- 
nificent chateau.  It  had  been  built  so 
quickly,  that  it  seemed  like  an  enchanted 
palace.  Toward  the  middle  of  summer,  a 
fine  young  lord,  a  fair  noble  lady  of  the  castle, 
and  two  lovely  children,  entered  the  village 
near  to  Haerlem  in  pride  and  triumph,  es- 
corted by  the  peasants,  who  had  assembled 
in  their  honor.  That  fine  young  lord  was 
John  Durer,  first  Minister  to  his  Majesty  the 
Emperor  of  Germany. 

It  had  chanced  that  heavy  losses  had  be- 
fallen Counsellor  Werter,  which  brought 
him  within  an  inch  of  ruin.  Had  it  not 
been  for  a  sister  left  him  who  took  care  of 
him,    the  poor  old  gentleman  would  have 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  1 89 

been,  indeed,  in  a  miserable  plight.  A 
single  word  .spoken  by  John  Durer  would 
have  restored  his  ancient  benefactor  to 
court,  and  replaced  him  in  the  Emperor's 
favor.  But  vanity  is  without  a  heart;  and 
wounded  pride  never  forgives  him  who  has 
wounded  it. 

IV. 

One  day  the  fine  young  lord  took  a  fancy 
to  go  and  visit  all  the  spots  in  which,  once 
on  a  time,  he  had  dreamed  away  so  many 
anxious  hours.  But  he  would  go  alone,  not 
choosing  that  any  should  witness  his  meet- 
ing v\/ith  those  old  friends,  the  haunts  which 
might  reveal  to  a  companion  the  poverty 
of  his  early  life.  He  set  forth  without  at- 
tendants, mounted  on  a  magnificent  courser. 
He  rode  here,  he  rode  there,  not  feeling 
even  surprised  to  see  everything  so  much 
as  it  was  when  he  had  quitted  the  country. 
The  day  began  to  go  down — it  was  evening 
— when  at  last  he  came  to  the  Valley  of 
Bushes.  There  was  a  small  bird  singing 
there,  just  as  it  sang  on  that  evening  long 
ago.  The  sight  of  the  white-thorn  trees 
awakened  painful  recollections  in  his  mind, 
— no  doubt,  perhaps,  even  a  pang  of  remorse  ; 
and  he  spurred  his  courser  in  order  to  get 
clear  of  the  place.  But  the  animal  trem- 
bled, snorted,  and  refused  to  move  a  step. 


190  The  Children's  Portto7t. 

He  spurred  his  courser:  the  animal  began 
to  neigh  violentl}^ 

"Is  it  some  serpent  that  he  sees?"  said 
the  fine  young  lord. 

It  was  a  little  old  man,  who  stepped  out 
from  among  the  bushes.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  black  mantle.  Out  he  came,  right  into 
the  middle  of  the  road,  closed  his  arms  on 
his  breast,  and  said  in  a  dull  voice,  "Baron 
Durer,  can  you  tell  me  what  is  the  distance 
from  a  shepherd's  hovel  to  a  king's  palace?" 

"That  which  there  is  betwixt  the  earth 
and  the  sun,"  was  the  reply  of  the  haughty 
upstart. 

At  this,  the  old  man  threw  his  cloak 
open,  and  showed  himself  to  the  Minister, 
as  he  had  shown  himself  twenty  years  be- 
fore, on  that  very  spot,  to  the  scholar  John 
Durer.  The  Counsellor  was  little  changed 
in  appearance,  except  in  his  hair,  which 
had  been  black,  and  was  now  white  as  the 
snow  of  winter. 

John  Durer's  vivSage  was  mostly  pale ;  but 
when  he  recognized  that  old  man,  it  became 
as  red  as  blood.  It  was  the  third  time  that 
he  had  blushed  face  to  face  with  his  former 
patron.  Then  the  old  man  cried  in  a  louder 
voice, — 

"Does  the  scholar  of  the  village  remem- 
ber one  Counsellor  Werter?" 

"The  Minister  remembers  nothing  of  the 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  191 

scholar,"  was  the  cold  and  arrogant  answer. 

"What,  then,  does  he  remember?"  said 
the  old  man,  pressing  a  little  nearer. 

"  NOTHING!"  cried  the  fine  young 
lord,  and  he  buried  his  spurs  in  the  sides  of 
his  courser.  They  went  off  at  a  fierce  gal- 
lop. 

V. 

But  the  fine  young  lord  had  only  an- 
swered the  truth.  Whether  it  was  from 
that  sudden  struggle  of  pride,  and  his  hard- 
hearted resolution  not  to  remember  the 
Counsellor  who  had  befriended  him  formerly 
or  whether  the  labor  of  many  years  had 
caused  it,  from  that  evening,  from  that 
moment,  the  memory  of  the  Emperor's 
great  Minister  began  to  decay.  The  am- 
bitious designs  of  the  shepherd  boy  of 
twenty  years  ago  came  back  to  him ;  but  of 
all  that  had  befallen  him  since,  John  Durer 
remembered  nothing.  The  hour  of  requital 
w^as  begun ! 

VI. 

Thanks  to  his  good  courser,  Baron  Durer, 
the  Minister,  got  home  in  safety  to  his  cha- 
teau. The  first  person  that  he  met  was  the 
baroness.  He  turned  abruptly  away  from 
her. 

''Whither  are  you  hurrying  so  fast,  m}^ 
dear  baron?"  said  she,  seeing  her  husband 


192  The  CJiildr ell's  Portion. 

running  away  from  her,  which  was  not  his 
custom,  for  he  was  fond  ^f  his  wife. 

' ' Baron  ! ' '  was  his  reply ;  "to  what  baron 
were  3'ou  calling?  I  am  no  baron,  madame 
— though  one  day,  perhaps,  I  may  be.  Let 
us  hope  I  may." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  these  words 
terrified  the  baroness.  Her  husband  im- 
mediately afterward  left  the  chateau,  and 
began  running  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him,  neither  stopping  nor  slackening  his 
pace.  His  head  w^as  bent  down,  like  the 
head  of  a  miser  who  is  seeking  about  every- 
where for  the  treasure  which  some  one  has 
stolen  from  him.  From  that  day  forward  his 
face  assumed  a  gloomy  expression,  his  color 
became  sallow,  his  eye  haggard;  and  he 
began  bitterly  to  complain  that  heaven  had 
thought  fit  to  send  him  on  earth  in  a  shep- 
herd's form  and  a  shepherd's  dress. 

Some  days  later,  a  messenger  from  the 
Emperor's  court  arrived  at  the  chateau: 
''May  it  please  my  lord  Minister,"  he 
began — 

"I  am  no  Minister,"  replied  Durer,  im- 
patiently; "  but  have  patience,  sir,  have 
patience;  I  may  be  Minister  one  day." 
Then  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  hast- 
ily In  the  gallery  of  the  chateau,  perpetu- 
ally saying,  "I  might  have  been  a  Minister 
by  this  time,  sir,  if  your  great  ones  did  not 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory.  193 

leave  men  of  strong  intellect,  and  ability, 
and  purpose,  in  the  jaws  of  a  misery  which 
eats  away  the  very  brain  as  rust  eats  away 
the  steel.  Why — why,  I  ask,  debar  these 
men  from  high  offices — these  men  who  have 
nothing — merely  out  of  a  prejudice,  which 
is  as  fatal  to  the  individual  as  it  is  deadly 
to  the  state?"  Then  turning  sharply  on 
the  Emperor's  emissary,  "Go,  and  tell  your 
master,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  yesterday  I 
was — I  was — I  was" — pressing  his  hand, 
as  he  spoke,  above  his  forehead,  as  though 
he  was  tr>dng  to  find  a  coronet  which  had 
belonged  to  it.  Then  rushing  away  dis- 
tractedly— "Minister!"  cried  he,  "lam — 
I  was — No,  no — I  was  not — but  I  soon  will 
be! — Leave  me,  sir!  leave  me!  leave  me!" 

Another  day,  his  wTetched  family,  who 
watched  him  with  terror,  overheard  him 
talking  to  his  gardener:  "What  a  magnifi- 
cent piece  of  work  you  are  laying  out,  my 
good  boy,"  said  Durer;  "a  garden  admira- 
bly designed,  if  there  ever  was  such  a 
thing."  Then  casting  a  disturbed  glance 
toward  the  chateau,  "'Tis  a  grand  place, 
this,"  said  he;  "rich  and  elegant,  and  capi- 
tally situated — to  whom  does  it  belong, 
Joseph?" 

"My  lord  baron  knows  right  well  that 
park,  gardens,  and  chateau,  belong  to  his 
noble  self,"  said  the  gardener,  leaning  on 
his  spade,  and  raising  his  cap. 


194  T^^^^  Chtldreri's  Portion. 

Durer  began  to  laugh  to  himself — but  it 
was  a  piteous  laugh — "Belong  to  me,  my 
goodbo}'!"  said  he;  "not  3-et — not  yet — 
and  yet  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  owned — 
as  if  I  had  owned" — and  he  passed  his  hand 
over  his  forehead,  as  if  he  could  call  back 
some  recollection  which  had  drifted  away 
out  of  his  reach — murmuring,  after  a  pause, 
"Is  it  to  be  this  shepherd's  hovel — for 
ever? — for  ever? — for  ever?"  He  fell  on  a 
turf  seat,  sobbing  bitterly ;  then  raising  his 
head,  he  saw  his  two  fair  little  children, 
who  were  at  play  in  one  of  the  alleys  of  the 
park. 

"What  lovely  children!"  sighed  he;  "ah! 
— he  must,  at  least,  be  happ3^,  whoever  he 
be,  that  is  father  to  such  a  pair  of  angels!" 

The  children  came  and  flung  themselves, 
laughing,  into  the  Minister's  arms,  and 
hung  about  him  with  all  manner  of  tender 
caresses.  In  return,  he  could  but  press 
their  tiny  hands  in  his,  or  let  his  lean, 
feverish  fingers  play  with  their  golden  curls. 
They  kept  calling  him  "Father." 

"What  are  they  saying!"  murmured  the 
Baron;  "the  blessing  of  being  called  father 
I  shall  never  know !  What  is  life — without 
a  home,  without  a  family  round  me !  But 
these  gifts  only  belong  to  fortune,  and  come 
with  it."  Then  looking  from  one  lovely 
little  creature  to  another,  with  his  dim  and 


The  Man  IVJio  Lost  His  Memory.  195 

bloodshot  eyes,  he  said,  ''And  yet  these 
children — these  children — ' '  He  could  not 
finish  his  sentence,  but  again  passed  his 
hand  over  his  forehead;  and  the  children 
became  silent  and  awe-stricken,  for  they 
saw  that  he  was  weeping  to  himself. 

Not  long  after  this,  he  ceased  to  know 
his  wife,  whom  he  called  for  without  ceas- 
ing; then  he  would  bury  himself  deep  in 
reading,  without  recollecting  a  word  of 
w^hat  he  had  read  when  he  had  ended.  All 
that  was  left  to  him  was  the  memory  of  his 
young  desires;  the  power  of  retaining  any- 
thing had  passed  away  utterh'.  His  ardor 
began  to  change  into  frenzy;  he  was  de- 
voured w4th  fever,  and  haunted  with  dream 
after  dream  that  tempted  him  to  pursue 
them,  and  mocked  him  at  the  very  moment 
when  he  thought  that  he  had  reached  them. 
The  struggle  wore  him  out,  life  and  limb. 
He  was  seen  day  by  day  to  wither,  and  grow 
weaker.  The  end  was  not  far.  On  the  last  day 
of  his  illness,  a  strange  fancy  seized  him :  he 
would  get  up — rushed  out  of  the  chateau, 
and  began  to  run  wildly  across  the  country, 
as  if  he  were  chasing  something  before  him 
that  no  one,  save  himself  could  see.  ' '  Sire ! ' ' 
cried  he,  hoarsely,  "deliver  me  from  the 
obscurity  of  this  shepherd's  life!  Sire! 
do  listen  to  me !  I  am  John  Durer !  I  have 
studied  everything !     I  have  learned  every- 


196  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

thing!  I  have  fathomed  everything !  Raise 
me  from  my  lowly  condition,  sire!  Who 
knows?  one  day  3^011  may  have  no  one 
among  your  servants  more  devoted,  more 
enlightened,  than  your  poor  John  Durer!" 

The  thing  that  he  pursued,  fled — fled. 
Durer  ran  after  it  more  wildly  as  he  grew 
weaker,  trying  to  raise  his  voice  higher  and 
higher,  and  stretching  out  his  arms  more 
and  more  eagerly.  They  were  now  at  the 
Valley  of  Bushes.  "Sire!"  cried  he  once 
again. 

"John  Durer,  scholar,  of  the  village  near 
Haerlem,"  replied  a  voice  from  the  shadows 
of  the  wood,  "his  Majesty  the  Emperor 
does  not  love  people  who  have  lost  their 
memory. ' ' 

The  whole  past — the  long,  long,  years  of 
his  ambitious  and  glorious  and  ungrateful 
life — seemed  in  one  instant  to  come  back, 
as  in  a  flash  of  lightning,  before  the  weary, 
distracted  man ;  and  with  this,  too ,  the 
consciousness  of  his  present  state.  He  ut- 
tered one  terrible  cry,  and  fell  down  dead. 

VII. 

Three  months  later,  when  his  orphans 
were  led  by  their  mother  a  second  time  to 
visit  the  humble  cemetery  of  the  village 
near  Haerlem,  they  found  a  little  old  man 
writing  rapidly,  with  a  piece  of  charcoal,  a 


The  Man  Who  Lost  His  Memory,  197 

few  strange  words  on  the  stone  under  which 
the  body  of  their  father,  the  Minister,  had 
been  laid.  When  they  came  close  to  the 
spot,  the  old  man  ceased,  and  pointed  out 
to  them,  with  an  awful  look,  that  which  he 
had  written.  After  the  inscription,  "Jo^^ 
Durer,  formerly  Minister  to  his  Majesty  the 
Emperor  of  Germany,"  the  old  man  had 
written — 

' '  Heaven  requites  ingratitude. ' ' 


THE  STORY  OI^  A  WEDGE. 

BY  RE:V.    C.    H.    mead. 

For  more  than  a  hundred  miles,  I  had 
traveled,  having  the  entire  seat  to  myself. 

Aside  from  the  selfishness  of  the  average 
traveler,  who,  while  unwilling  to  pay  for 
more  sitting,  is  more  than  wdlling  to  monop- 
olize the  whole  seat,  I  was  glad  of  plenty  of 
elbow  room  to  enable  me  to  answer  some 
pressing  letters. 

But  as  the  car  began  to  fill  up,  I  knew 
the  bag  at  my  side  must  soon  give  way  to 
another  kind  of  neighbor,  and  presently 
down  the  aisle  he  came.  From  a  perpen- 
dicular standpoint  he  was  small,  but  hori- 
zontally, he  was  immense,  and  I  viewed  his 
approach  with  some  alarm. 

There  was  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
and  his  face  beamed  with  good  nature  as  he 
said,  "Ah,  I  see  you  have  room  for  a  wedge 
at  your  side ;  allow  me  to  put'  it  in  place. ' ' 
With  considerable  effort  and  a  good  deal 
of  tight  squeezing,  he  at  last  settled  down 
in  the  seat,  remarking,  with  a  merry  laugh, 
"Here  I  am  at  last;"  and  there  I  was  too, 
and  there  I  was  likel}^  to  remain,  if  that 
wedge  did  not  fly  out,  or  the  side  of  the 
car  give  way. 

198 


'  The  Story  of  a  Wedge.  199 

''Have  you  room  enough?"  I  slyly  in- 
quired. 

*' Plenty  of  room,  thank  you,"  he  replied; 
"I  trust  you  are  nice  and  snug." 

' '  Never  more  snug  in  my  life. ' ' 

"That's  right;  the  loose  way  in  which 
most  people  travel  is  a  continual  menace  to 
life  and  limb.  I  believe  in  keeping  things 
snug,  spiritually,  physically,  socially,  finan- 
cially and  politically  snug.  And  if  things 
are  spiritually  snug,  all  the  others  must  be 
so,  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  learned  that 
fact  years  ago  in  England. ' ' 

"Are  you  an  Englishman,"  I  inquired. 

"No,  sir;  I'm  a  Presbyterian"  he  laugh- 
ingly replied ;  "my  father  was  born  in  Eng- 
land, my  mother  was  born  in  Ohio,  and  I 
was  born  the  first  time  in  New  Jersey.  Then 
on  a  visit  to  England  I  was  'born  again.' 
My  father  was  a  Methodist;  my  mother 
was  a  Quaker,  so  of  course  I  had  to  be  a 
Presbyterian." 

His  unctuous  laughter  made  the  seat 
tremble.  "Not  a  blue  one,  mind  you.  Blue? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  Why,  bless  you,  when  I 
became  a  Christian,  all  the  blue  went  out 
of  my  heart  and  went  into  my  sky. 

"My  father  was  physically  large — I  take 
after  him.  M}^  mother — "  he  stopped 
abruptly  and  lifted  his  hat  reverently ;  the 
tears  filled  his  eyes  and  coursed  down  his 


200  TJie  Children'' s  Portio7t. 

cheeks,  and  presentl}^  with  choking  voice 
he  continued: 

"My  mother,  God  bless  her  memory,  was 
the  best  woman  and  the  grandest  Christian 
I  ever  knew.  She  lives  in  heaven,  and  she 
lives  in  my  heart.  I  would  that  I  were  as 
much  like  mother  spiritually  as  I  resemble 
father  physically. ' ' 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice,  as  he  said 
this,  made  me  feel  that  his  sainted  mother, 
were  she  present,  would  have  no  reason  to 
feel  ashamed  of  her  son. 

As  he  was  about  to  replace  his  hat  on  his 
head,  I  noticed  in  large  letters  pasted  on 
the  lining,  these  words,  "Hinder  nobody — 
help  everybody." 

"Excuse  me,  sir;"  I  said,  as  I  pointed  to 
the  words,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  that?" 

Quickly  the  tears  on  his  cheeks,  were 
illuminated  by  a  smile  as  he  said — "That's 
my  watchword ;  I  carry  it  in  my  hat,  have 
it  hung  up  on  my  wall  at  home,  and  since 
I  went  into  my  present  business,  I've  tried 
to  make  it  the  daily  practice  of  my  life." 

"May  I  inquire  what  your  business  is?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  my  business  is  serving 
the  Lord,  and  there  is  no  business  like  it 
in  the  universe.  It  pays  good  dividends, 
brings  me  no  worry,  insures  me  a  good 
standing  in  the  best  society ;  feeds  me  on 
the  fat  of  the  laiid,  fills  my  heart  with  peace 


The  Story  of  a  Wedge.  201 

and  makes  me  an  heir  to  a  kingdom,  a  robe 
and  a  crown.  Bankruptcy  and  bad  debts 
never  stare  me  in  the  face,  and  every  draft 
I  draw  is  honored  at  the  bank.  Thus,  I 
'hinder  nobody,'  and  am  able  to  'help every 
body.'  " 

"Where  do  you  reside?"  I  asked. 

"On  Pisgah's  top" — and  his  face  fairly 
shone  as  he  repeated  it — "on  Pisgah's  top. 
At  first  I  lived  down  in  the  valley  among 
Bzekiel's  dry  bones,  and  used  to  help  the 
multitudes  sing — 

"  'Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er: 
Not  Jordan's  stream  nor  death's  cold  flood, 
Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. ' 

'  *  But  I  moved  on  and  up  to  my  present 
residence,  and  now  I  sing — 

"  'From  Pisgah's  top,  the  promised  land, 
I  now  exult  to  see : 
My  hope  is  full,  oh,  glorious  hope, 
Of  immortality. ' 

"But  I  beg  3^  our  pardon,  sir;  am  I  crowd- 
ing 3'OU?" 

"Crowding me?  not  a  bit  of  it.  I  trust  I 
shall  always  have  room  for  company  like 
you. ' ' 

"Thank  3^ou,  sir,  thank  3'ou.  I'm  only  a 
wedge" — with  a  merry  laugh — "but  I  try 
to  fill  every  opening  the  Lord  shows  me. 
Excuse  me  but  how  far  are  you  going?" 


202  The  Childr ell's  Portion. 

"I  get  off  at  Alban3%"  I  replied.  He 
looked  at  me  as  if  taking  my  measure,  and, 
after  a  moment  he  said : 

' '  I  hope  you  are  not  a  member  of  the  leg- 
islature." 

"No,  sir,"  I  said,  "I'm  a  Methodist." 

"Give  me  your  hand.  I  am  so  glad  to 
know  you  are  going  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. A  man  may  go  to  heaven  by  way  of 
the  legislature,  but  I  would  as  soon  think 
of  going  where  I  could  get  cholera  in  order 
to  secure  good  health,  as  expect  to  serve 
God  by  becoming  a  member  of  the  legisla- 
ture. Ah,  here  is  Albany !  Good  day,  sir; 
don't  forget  the  wedge.  And  if  you  will, 
I  wish  you  would  remember  the  watchword 
— 'Hinder  nobody — Help  everybody.'  " 


PRINCE  EDWIN  AND  HIS  PAGE. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  ANGI.O-SAXONS. 

Chapter  I. 

On  a  certain  high  festival,  which  was  set 
apart  by  Saxon  monarchs  for  receiving  the 
petitions  of  the  poor,  and  the  appeals  of 
such  of  their  subjects  as  had  any  cause  of 
complaint,  the  great  King  Athelstane  sat 
enthroned  in  royal  state,  to  listen  to  the 
applications  of  all  who  came  to  prefer  their 
suits  to  him. 

In  one  corner  of  the  hall  stood  a  noble- 
looking  Saxon  lady  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand. 
The  lady  was  evidently  a  widow,  and  of 
high  rank,  for  she  wore  a  widow's  hood  and 
barb — the  barb,  a  piece  of  white  lawn,  that 
covered  the  lower  part  of  the  face,  being 
worn  only  by  widows  of  high  degree.  The 
little  boy,  too,  was  also  arra^^ed  in  black 
attire;  his  youthful  countenance  bore  an 
expression  of  the  utmost  grief,  and  his 
large  blue  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  This 
sorrowful  pair  did  not  press  forward  like 
the  other  petitioners,  but  kept  at  a  modest 
distance  from  the  throne,  evidently  waiting 
for  the  king  to  give  them  some  encouraging 
203 


204  TJie  Children'^ s  Portion. 

signal  before  they  ventured  to  approach 
him. 

The  royal  Athelstane's  attention  was  at 
length  attracted  by  the  anxious  glances 
which  both  mother  and  son  bent  upon  him ; 
and  as  he  perceived  that  they  were  in  dis- 
tress, he  waved  his  hand  for  th^m  to  draw 
near. 

*'Who  are  ye?"  said  the  king,  when  the 
mournful  widow  and  her  son,  in  obedience 
to  his  encouraging  sign,  advanced,  and 
bowed  the  knee  before  him. 

"Will  my  royal  lord  be  graciously  pleased 
to  answer  me  one  question  before  I  reply  to 
that  which  he  has  asked  of  me?"  said  the 
Saxon  lady. 

"Speak  on,"  replied  King  Athelstane. 

"Is  it  just  that  the  innocent  should  suffer 
for  the  guilty,  O  King?"  said  she. 

"Assuredly  not,"  replied  the  king. 

"Then,  wherefore,"  said  the  Saxon  lady, 
"hast  thou  deprived  my  son,  Wilfrid,  of 
his  inheritance,  for  the  fault  of  his  father? 
Cendric  has  already  paid  the  forfeit  of  his 
life  for  having  unhappily  leagued  himself 
with  a  traitor  who  plotted  against  thy  royal 
life;  but  this  boy,  his  guiltless  orphan,  did 
never  offend  thee !  Why,  then,  should  he 
be  doomed  to  poverty  and  contempt?" 

"It  was  the  crime  of  the  traitor  Cendric, 
not  m}'  will,  that  deprived  his  son  of  his 
inheritance,"  said  the  king. 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.      205 

"I  acknowledge  it  with  grief,  my  royal 
lord,"  said  Ermengarde,  for  that  was  the 
name  of  the  Saxon  widow;  "but  it  rests 
with  thy  good  pleasure  to  restore  to  his  in- 
nocent child  the  forfeit  lands  of  the  unhappy 
Cendric.'* 

*'Is  this  boy  the  son  of  the  traitor  Cen- 
dric?"  asked  the  king,  placing  his  hand  on 
the  head  of  the  weeping  Wilfrid. 

"He  is,  ni}^  gracious  lord,"  replied  Er- 
mengarde. He  has  been  carefully  brought 
up  in  the  fear  of  God,  and  I,  his  widowed 
mother,  will  be  surety  to  thee,  that  the  boy 
shall  serve  thee  truly  and  faithfully  all  the 
days  of  his  life  if  thou  wilt  but  restore  him 
to  his  inheritance." 

"Widow  of  Cendric,  listen  tome,"  said 
the  king.  "Thy  husband  plotted  with 
traitors  to  deprive  me  of  my  crown  and  vay 
life;  and  the  laws  of  his  countr}^  which  he 
had  broken,  doomed  him  to  death,  and  con- 
fiscated his  lands  and  castles  to  my  use.  I 
might  retain  them  in  my  own  hands,  if  it 
were  my  pleasure  so  to  do;  but  I  will  only 
hold  them  in  trust  for  thy  son,  whom  I  will 
make  my  ward,  and  place  in  the  college  at 
Oxford.  If  he  there  conducts  himself  to  my 
satisfaction,  I  will,  when  he  comes  of  age, 
restore  to  him  the  forfeited  lands  of  his 
father,  Cendric." 

Ermengarde   and   Wilfrid    threw   them- 


2o6  The  Childreii^s  PortioJi. 

selves  at  the  feet  of  the  gracious  Athelstane, 
and  returned  their  tearful  thanks  for  his 
goodness. 

"Wilfrid,"  said  the  king,  "your  fortunes 
are  now  in  your  own  hands ;  and  it  depends 
on  your  own  conduct  whether  you  become  a 
mighty  thane  or  a  landless  outcast.  Remem- 
ber, it  is  always  in  the  power  of  a  virtuous 
son  to  blot  out  the  reproach  which  the 
crimes  of  a  wicked  parent  may  have  cast 
upon  his  name." 

The  words  of  King  Athelstane  were  as 
balm  to  the  broken  spirit  of  the  boy,  and 
they  were  never  forgotten  by  him  in  all  the 
trials,  many  of  them  grievous  ones,  which 
awaited  him  in  after-life. 

King  Athelstane,  and  his  brother,  Prince 
Edwin,  w^ere  sons  of  King  Edward,  sur- 
named  the  Elder,  the  son  and  successor  of 
Alfred  the  Great.  After  a  glorious  reign, 
Edward  died  in  the  year  of  our  Eord  925, 
and  at  his  death  a  great  dispute  arose  among 
the  nobles  as  to  which  of  his  sons  should 
succeed  him  in  the  royal  dignity. 

Athelstane  had  early  distinguished  him- 
vSelf  by  his  valor  in  battle,  his  wisdom  in 
council,  and  by  so  many  princely  actions, 
that  he  was  the  darling  of  the  people.  His 
grandfather,  the  great  Alfred,  had,  there- 
fore, on  his  death -bed  adjudged  Athel- 
stane to  be  the  most  suitable  of  all  Edward's 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     207 

sons  to  reign  over  England.  There  were, 
however,  some  of  the  Saxon  lords  who  ob- 
jected to  Athelstane  being  made  king,  be- 
cause he  was  born  before  King  Edward's 
royal  marriage  with  the  reigning  queen; 
Athelstane' s  mother,  Egwina,  having  been 
only  a  poor  shepherd's  daughter.  They 
wished,  therefore,  that  Prince  Edwin,  the 
eldest  son  of  King  Edward's  queen,  should 
be  declared  king;  but  as  Edwin  was  very 
young,  the  people  decided  on  crowning 
Athelstane,  he  being  of  a  proper  age  to 
govern. 

This  election  was  very  displeasing  to 
some  of  the  proud  Saxon  lords ;  and  Cen- 
dric,  the  father  of  Wilfrid,  had  been  among 
those  who  conspired  with  a  wicked  traitor 
of  the  name  of  Alfred,  to  take  away  the  life 
of  Athelstane.  The  conspiracy  was  dis- 
covered, and  all  who  were  engaged  in  it 
were  punished  with  death. 

The  college  in  which  Wilfrid  was  placed 
at  Oxford,  had  been  founded  by  Alfred  the 
Great,  for  the  education  of  the  youthful 
nobles  and  gentles  of  the  land.  It  had  been 
deemed  the  most  proper  place  for  the  edu- 
cation of  the  king's  younger  brother,  Prince 
Edwin,  and  some  other  royal  w^ards,  for 
the  most  part  sons  of  Anglo-Saxon  and 
Danish  nobles,  whose  persons  and  estates 
had  been  committed  to  the  guardianship  of 


2o8  The  Childi^eii's  Portion. 

the  king  during  their  minority.  King 
Athelstane,  who,  like  his  grandfather,  Al- 
fred the  Great,  was  very  desirous  of  pro- 
moting learning,  had  provided  suitable  mas- 
ters for  their  instruction  in  every  branch  of 
knowledge.  Leaving,  therefore,  men  of  dis- 
tinguished learning  and  of  great  wisdom  to 
conduct  the  education,  and  form  the  minds 
and  morals  of  this  youthful  community; 
and  being  himself  engaged  in  the  cares  of 
government,  and  in  repelling  the  attacks  of 
the  Danes,  the  king  limited  his  further  at- 
tention to  occasional  inquiries  after  the 
health  and  improvement  of  his  brother  and 
the  rest  of  the  royal  wards. 

He  had,  indeed,  taken  the  pains  to  draw 
up  the  rules  which  he  deemed  proper  to  be 
observed  in  this  juvenile  society.  One  of 
the  most  important  of  these,  namely,  that 
a  system  of  perfect  equality  should  be  ob- 
served toward  all  the  individuals  of  whom 
it  was  composed,  was,  however,  soon  viola- 
ted in  favor  of  Prince  Edwin,  who,  because 
he  was  the  Atheling,  as  the  heir  apparent 
to  the  throne  was  called  in  those  da3's,  was 
honored  with  peculiar  marks  of  distinction. 
Every  person  in  the  college,  from  the  masters 
to  the  humblest  servitor,  appeared  desirous 
of  winning  the  favor  of  the  future  sovereign, 
and  of  this  Edwin  too  vSoon  became  aware. 

Prince  Edwin  was  the  leader  of  the  sports, 


Pynnce  Edwi7i  and  His  Page,     209 

and  no  amusement  was  adopted  unless  his 
approbation  had  previously  been  asked  and 
obtained.  All  disputed  matters  were  re- 
ferred to  his  decision,  and  no  appeal  from 
his  judgment  was  permitted. 

It  would  have  afforded  subject  of  serious 
reflection,  perhaps  of  jealous  alarm,  to  the 
king  had  he  been  aware  of  the  injudicious 
courses  which  were  pursued  by  those  around 
Prince  Edwin ;  but  Athelstane  was  engaged 
in  bloody  wars  with  the  Danes  and  the  in- 
surgent Welsh  princes,  which  kept  him  far 
remote  from  Oxford.  His  brother,  mean- 
while, continued  to  receive  the  most  perni- 
cious flattery  from  every  creature  around 
him,  except  Wilfrid,  the  son  of  Cendric, 
who,  by  order  of  King  Athelstane,  had  been 
appointed  his  page  of  honor. 

When  Wilfrid  was  first  admitted  into  the 
college  he  was  treated  with  great  scorn  by 
the  royal  wards.  Among  them  were  many 
who,  in  the  pride  of  circumstance  and  the 
vanity  of  youth,  were  so  unkind  as  to  cher- 
ish disdainful  feelings  against  the  unfortu- 
nate Wilfrid,  and  to  murmur  at  his  intro- 
duction into  their  society. 

Prince  Edwin  was,  however,  of  a  more 
generous  disposition,  and  by  extending  his 
favor  and  protection  to  the  forlorn  youth, 
rendered  his  residence  in  the  college  less 
irksome  than  it  otherwise  would  have  been. 


2IO  The  Childr ell's  Portio7t. 

But  the  very  affection  with  which  Wilfrid 
was  regarded  by  his  young  lord  had  the 
effect  of  increasing  the  hostile  feeling  of  the 
others  against  him ;  and  in  the  absence  of 
the  Atheling,  he  had  to  endure  a  thousand 
bitter  taunts  and  cruel  insults  respecting 
his  father's  crime  and  the  ignominious 
death  he  had  suffered. 

Wilfrid  was  too  noble-minded  to  com- 
plain to  his  young  lord  of  this  treatment, 
although  he  felt  it  deeply.  It  required  all 
his  firmness  and  forbearance  to  endure  it 
patiently ;  but  he  remembered  the  words  of 
King  Athelstane — "that  his  future  fortunes 
depended  upon  his  own  conduct;"  and  he 
resolved,  under  all  circumstances,  to  perse- 
vere in  the  path  of  duty;  and,  if  possible, 
by  his  own  virtues  to  blot  out  the  remem- 
brance of  his  father's  fault.  He  was  also 
duly  impressed  with  a  grateful  sense  of  the 
king's  goodness  in  extending  to  him  the 
advantages  of  a  liberal  and  courtly  educa- 
tion; of  which  he  wisely  determined  to 
make  the  most  he  could.  By  unremitting 
exertions,  he  soon  made  so  rapid  a  progress 
in  his  studies  that  he  outstripped  all  his 
fellow-students;  and,  though  the  youngest 
boy  in  the  college,  he  obtained  the  highest 
place  of  all,  except  the  seat  of  honor,  which 
his  partial  preceptors  allowed  Prince  Ed- 
win to  retain. 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     211 

Prince  Edwin  loved  Wilfrid,  and  took 
real  pleasure  in  witnessing  his  repeated 
triumphs  over  those  who  regarded  him  with 
such  unkindly  feelings.  But  Prince  Edwin 
himself  was  proud  and  capricious — his  nat- 
urally frank  and  noble  disposition  having 
been  spoiled  by  the  adulation  of  those  about 
him ;  and  Wilfrid  was,  perhaps,  more  than 
any  other  person,  exposed  to  suffer  from 
his  occasional  fits  of  passion.  Yet  Wilfrid 
w^as  the  only  person  who  ventured  to  repre- 
sent to  him  the  folly  and  impropriety  of 
conduct  so  unbecoming  in  any  one,  but  pe- 
culiarly unwise  in  a  prince,  who,  on  account 
of  his  elevated  rank,  and  the  respect  with 
which  he  was  treated,  is  required  to  prac- 
tice universal  courtesy,  and  to  avoid,  if 
possible,  giving  offence  to  any  one. 

Prince  Edwin,  though  often  piqued  at 
the  plain  dealing  of  his  page,  knew  how  to 
value  his  sincerit}^  and  attachment.  How- 
ever he  might  at  times  give  way  to  petu- 
lance toward  him,  he  treated  him,  on  the 
w^hole,  with  greater  consideration,  and  paid 
more  attention  to  his  opinions  than  to  those 
of  any  other  person.  The  regard  of  Prince 
Edwin  for  his  page  was,  however,  soon  ob- 
ser\^ed  with  jealous  displeasure  by  one  of 
the  royal  wards,  named  Brithric,  who  was 
older  by  two  or  three  years  than  2My  of  the 
other  young  companions  of  the  prince. 


212  The  Children's  Portion, 


Chapter  II. 

Brithric  was  a  youth  of  a  specious  and 
deceitful  character:  it  was  his  practice  to 
dissemble  his  real  sentiments,  and  to  recom- 
mend himself  by  flattering  speeches  to  the 
favor  of  his  superiors.  By  constantly  ad- 
dressing Prince  Edwin  in  the  language  of 
adulation,  he  succeeded  in  rendering  his 
company  very  agreeable  to  him;  for  the 
prince's  besetting  sin  was  vanity,  and  the 
artful  Brithric  was  only  too  well  skilled  in 
perceiving  and  taking  advantage  of  the  weak 
points  of  others. 

Wilfrid  beheld  this  growing  intimacy 
with  pain ;  nor  did  he  attempt  to  conceal 
his  uneasiness  whenever  the  prince  spoke 
to  him  on  the  subject  of  his  evident  dislike 
of  the  society  of  Brithric.  "  I  do  not  respect 
Brithric,  my  lord,"  replied  Wilfrid;  "and 
where  esteem  is  wanting,  there  can  be  no 
true  grounds  for  forming  friendships." 

"And  what  are  your  reasons,  Wilfrid,  for 
denying  your  esteem  to  Brithric?"  said  the 
prince.  "He  is  obliging,  and  often  says 
very  agreeable  things  to  you." 

"It  costs  more  to  win  my  esteem  than  a 
few  unmeaning  compliments,  w^iich  Brith- 
ric is  accustomed  to  pay  to  every  one  with 
whom  he  is  desirous  of  carrying  his  point," 
said  Wilfrid. 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     213 

"And  what  should  Brithric,  who  ivS  the 
heir  of  the  richest  thane  in  ni)^  brother's 
court,  want  to  gain  of  a  poor,  landless  or- 
phan who  owes  his  sustenance  and  educa- 
tion to  the  compassion  of  King  Athel- 
Stane?"  retorted  the  prince,  angrily. 

The  pale  cheek  of  Wilfrid  flushed  with 
unwonted  crimson  at  this  unexpected  taunt 
from  the  lips  of  his  young  lord.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  restrained  the  tears 
which  filled  his  eyes  from  overflowing,  but 
turning  meekly  away,  he  said — 

"It  is  the  first  time  the  Atheling  has  eon- 
descended  to  upbraid  his  page  with  the 
bounty  of  his  royal  brother,  the  generous 
Athelstane,  whom  may  heaven  long  pre- 
ser\^e  and  bless." 

"It  is  good  policy,  methinks,  for  the  son 
of  a  traitor  to  speak  loudly  of  his  loyalty  to 
the  mighty  Athelstane, ' '  said  Brithric,  who, 
having  entered  unperceived,  was  listening 
to  this  conversation. 

"Nay,  Brithric,"  said  the  prince,  "Wil- 
frid could  not  help  his  f ather '  s  fault ;  though 
the  remembrance  of  his  crime  and  punish- 
ment ought  to  restrain  him  from  offering 
his  opinion  too  boldly,  when  speaking  of 
the  friends  of  his  lord." 

"Let  every  one  be  judged  by  his  own 
deeds, ' '  replied  Wilfrid.  ' '  My  unfortunate 
parent   offended   against   the   laws   of   his 


214  The  Children^ s  Portion. 

countty,  and  has  suffered  the  penalt}'  de- 
creed to  those  who  do  so  \yy  the  loss  of  life 
and  forfeiture  of  lands.  As  a  further  pun- 
ishment, I,  his  only  child,  who  was  born 
the  heir  of  a  fair  patrimonj^  am  reared  in 
a  state  of  servitude  and  sorrow,  and  am 
doomed  not  only  to  mourn  ni}^  early  bereave- 
ment of  a  father's  care  and  ni}^  hard  reverse 
of  fortune,  but  to  endure  the  taunts  of  those 
who  are  unkind  enough  to  reproach  me 
"with  the  sore  calamities  which,  without  any 
fault  of  mine,  have  fallen  upon  ni}-  5'outh- 
f ul  head. ' ' 

The  voice  of  Wilfrid  failed  him  as  he 
concluded,  and  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

The  heart  of  Prince  Edwin  vSmote  him 
for  the  pain  he  had  inflicted  upon  his  faith- 
ful page ;  but  he  w^as  too  proud  to  acknowl- 
edge his  fault.  He  could  not,  however, 
bear  to  look  upon  his  tears;  so  he  left  him 
to  indulge  them  in  solitude,  and,  taking  the 
ready  arm  of  Brithric,  strolled  into  the 
archery  ground  to  amuse  himself  by  shoot- 
ing at  a  mark. 

His  hand  was  unsteady  and  his  aim  un- 
certain that  day,  yet  Brithric' s  voice  was 
louder  than  ever  in  praising  the  skill  of  the 
Atheling.  The  rest  of  the  royal  wards  took 
their  cue  from  the  bold  flatterer,  and  ad- 
dressed to  the  prince  the  most  extravagant 
compliments    every  time    his    arrow  came 


Prince  Edzvin  and  His  Page.     215 

near  the  mark,  which  they   all  purposely 
abstained  from  hitting. 

At  that  moment  the  pale,  sorrowful  Wil- 
frid crossed  the  ground;  but,  wishing  to 
escape  the  attention  of  the  joyous  group,  he 
kept  at  a  distance.  The  prince,  however, 
observed  him,  and  willing  to  obliterate  the 
remembrance  of  his  late  unkindness,  called 
to  him  in  a  lively  voice :  ' '  Come  hither, 
Wilfrid,"  said  he,  "and  tell  me  if  you  think 
you  could  send  an  arrow  nearer  to  yonder 
mark  than  I  have  done. ' ' 

' '  Certainly, ' '  replied  Wilfrid, "  or  I  should 
prove  myself  but  a  bad  archer. '  * 

The  group  of  youthful  flatterers,  who  sur- 
rounded the  heir  of  the  throne,  smiled  con- 
temptuously at  the  unguarded  sincerity  of 
the  page  in  speaking  the  truth  thus  openl}^ 
and  plainly  to  his  lord. 

"Wilfrid,  if  we  may  believe  his  ow^n  tes- 
timony, is  not  only  wiser  and  better  than 
any  of  the  serv^ants  of  the  Atheling, ' '  said 
Brithric  scornfully,  "but  excels  even  the 
royal  Atheling  himself,  in  all  the  exercises 
of  princely  skill. ' ' 

"He  has  yet  to  prove  his  boast, ' '  replied 
the  prince,  coloring  with  suppressed  anger  ; 
"but  give  him  his  bow,  Brithric,"  contin- 
ued, he,  "that  we  may  all  have  the  advan- 
tage of  taking  a  lesson  from  so  peerless  an 
archer." 


2i6  The  Children'^ s  Portion. 

"It  is  far  from  my  wish  presumptuously 
to  compete  with  my  lord,"  replied  Wilfrid, 
calmly  rejecting  the  bow. 

"He  has  boasted  that  which  he  cannot 
perform, ' '  said  Brithric,  with  an  insulting 
laugh. 

"You  are  welcome  to  that  opinion,  Brith- 
ric, if  it  so  please  you,"  said  Wilfrid,  turn- 
ing about  to  quit  the  ground. 

"Nay,"  cried  the  prince,  "you  go  not 
till  you  have  made  good  your  boast,  young 
sir,  by  sending  an  arrow  nearer  to  the  mark 
than  mine. ' ' 

'  *  Ay,  royal  Atheling, ' '  shouted  the  com- 
pany, "compel  the  vaunter  to  show  us  a 
sample  of  his  skill. ' ' 

"Rather,  let  my  lord,  the  Atheling,  try 
his  own  skill  once  more, ' '  said  Wilfrid ;  "he 
can  hit  the  mark  himself,  if  he  will. ' ' 

Prince  Edwin  bent  his  bow,  and  this  time 
the  arrow  entered  the  centre  of  the  target. 
The  ground  rang  with  the  plaudits  of  the 
spectators. 

"LrCt  us  see  now  if  Wilfrid,  the  son  of 
Cendric,  the  traitor,  can  equal  the  Athel- 
ing's  shot,"     shouted  Brithric. 

*  'Shoot,  Wilfrid,  shoot !"  cried  more  than 
twenty  voices  among  the  royal  wards. 

"I  have  no  wish  lo  bend  the  bow  to- 
day," said  Wilfrid. 

' '  Because  you  know  that  you  must  expose 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     217 

yourself  to  contempt  by  failing  to  make 
your  vaunt  good, ' '  said  Brithric ;  ' ' but  you 
shall  not  escape  thus  lightly. ' ' 

*' Nothing  but  the  express  command  of 
the  prince,  my  master,  will  induce  me  to 
bend  my  bow  to-day,"  said  Wilfrid. 

"Wilfrid,  son  of  Cendric,  I,  Edwin  Ath- 
eling,  command  thee  to  shoot  at  yonder 
mark,"  said  the  prince. 

Wilfrid  bowed  his  head  in  obedience  to 
the  mandate.  He  fitted  the  arrow  to  the 
string,  and  stepping  a  pace  backward,  took 
his  aim  and  bent  the  bow.  The  arrow  flew 
unerringly,  and  cleft  in  twain  that  of  Prince 
Kdwin  which  alread}^  remained  fixed  in  the 
centre  of  the  mark. 

This  feat  of  skillful  archery  on  the  part  of 
the  page  called  forth  no  shout,  nor  even  a 
word  of  applause,  from  the  partial  group  of 
flatterers,  who  had  so  loudly  commended 
the  Atheling's  less  successful  shots.  Their 
silence,  however,  was  best  pleasing  to  the 
modest  Wilfrid,  who,  without  so  much  as 
casting  a  single  triumphant  glance  upon 
those  who  had  insulted  and  reviled  him, 
dropped  his  bow  upon  the  earth,  and,  bow- 
ing to  his  royal  master,  retired  from  the 
scene  without  uttering  a  syllable. 

From  that  day  there  was  a  visible  change 
in  the  manners  of  the  Atheling  toward  his 
page,  for  his  vanity  had  been  piqued  by 


21 8  The  Childreii's  Poriioit. 

this  trifling  circumstance,  of  which  the  art- 
ful Brithric  took  advantage  to  irritate  his 
mind  against  Wilfrid.  He  now  addressed 
him  only  in  the  language  of  imperious  com- 
mand, and  not  unfrequently  treated  him. 
with  personal  indignity. 

Wilfrid  felt  these  things  very  acutely,, 
and  the  more  so  because  the  former  kind- 
ness of  his  youthful  lord  had  won  his  ear- 
liest affections.  But  he  now  bore  all  his 
capricious  changes  of  temper  with  meek- 
ness. It  was  only  in  his  unrestrained  con- 
fidence with  his  widowed  mother  that  he 
ever  uttered  a  complaint  of  the  young  Ath- 
eling,  and  then  he  spoke  of  him  in  sorrow, 
not  in  anger ;  for  he  rightly  attributed  much 
of  Prince  Edwin's  unamiable  conduct  to  the 
pernicious  influence  which  the  artful  Brith- 
ric had,  through  flattery,  obtained  over  his; 
mind. 

".Patience,  my  son,"  would  the  widowed 
Ermengarde  say  in  those  moments  when 
Wilfrid  sought  relief  by  venting  his  an- 
guish in  tears  on  the  bosom  of  his  tender 
mother,  "patience,  my  son;  true  greatness 
is  shown  most  especially  in  enduring  with 
magnanimity  the  crosses  and  trials  which 
are  of  every-day  occurence.  Let  sorrow, 
sickness,  or  any  other  adversity  touch  Prince 
Edwin,  and  he  will  learn  the  difference  be- 
tween a  true  friend  and  a  false  flatterer.  In 


Prince  Edzvin  and  His  Page.     219 

due  time,  your  worth  will  be  proved,  and 
your  victory  will  be  a  glorious  one :  for  it 
will  be  the  triumph  of  virtue!" 


Chapter  III. 

The  day  which  Ermengarde  had  predic- 
ted was  close  at  hand.  An  infectious  fever 
broke  out  in  the  college,  which,  in  several 
instances,  proved  fatal  to  those  who  were 
attacked  by  it,  and  spread  such  terror 
throughout  the  college  that  when  Prince 
Edwin  fell  sick  he  w^as  forsaken  by  almost 
every  living  creature.  His  faithful  page, 
Wilfrid,  however,  w^atched  him  day  and 
night,  and  supplied  him  with  drink  and 
nourishment,  which  were  brought  to  him 
by  the  widow"  Ermengarde. 

For  six  days  the  young  Atheling  w^as 
insensible  of  everything  but  his  own  suffer- 
ings, and  gave  no  indications  of  conscious- 
ness. On  the  night  of  the  seventh,  as 
Wilfrid  w^as  supporting  upon  his  bosom  the 
head  of  his  afflicted  master,  and  holding  a 
cup  of  cooling  drink  to  his  parched  lips,  he 
murmured,  "Is  it  you,  my  faithful  Brith- 


ric 


' '  No, ' '  replied  the  page,  ' '  Brithric  is  not 
present,  neither  hath  he  entered  this  cham- 
ber, my  lord,  since  the  term  of  your  sore 
sickness  commenced." 


2  20  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

''Surely,  then,  he  must  himself  be  sick, 
perhaps  dead,"  said  the  prince. 

"No,"  replied  Wilfrid,  with  a  smile; 
"he  is  only  fearful  of  exposing  himself  to 
the  contagion  of  the  fever." 

"Who,  then,  hath  nursed  and  attended 
upon  me  so  kindly  during  these  many  days 
of  suffering  while  I  have  lain  here  uncon- 
scious of  everything  around  me?" 

"Your  servant  Wilfrid, ' '  replied  the  page. 

"And  where  then  are  my  chamberlains 
and  attendants,  by  whom  I  ought  to  be  sur- 
rounded?" asked  the  prince,  raising  his 
languid  head  from  the  bosom  of  Wilfrid, 
and  looking  round  the  spacious  but  deserted 
room  of  state,  in  which  he  lay. 

"They  are  all  overcome  by  the  terrors  of 
the  contagion,"  said  Wilfrid. 

"And  why  did  you  not  flee  from  it  also, 
Wilfrid?"  asked  the  prince. 

"Because,  my  lord,"  said  Wilfrid,  "I 
knew  that  you  must  perish  if  I  abandoned 
you." 

"Ah!  Wilfrid,"  said  the  prince,  bursting 
into  tears,  "I  deserve  not  this  goodness 
from  you,  for  of  late  I  have  treated  you  very 
unkindly ;  I  know  and  feel  that  I  have :  can 
you  forgive  me?" 

''Think  no  more  of  it,  my  lord,  I  pray 
you,"  replied  Wilfrid,  pressing  the  burning 
hand  of  the  prince  to  his  lips.     ' '  I  freely 


Prince  Edzvin  and  His  Page.     2  2  r 

forgive  all  that  has  passed,  and  only  wish 
you  to  remember  it,  whenever  you  feel  dis- 
posed to  yield  to  the  impulses  of  a  defective 
temper,  which,  for  your  own  sake,  rather 
than  mine,I  earnestl3^hope  you  will  correct. ' ' 

Prince  Edwin  bowed  his  face  on  the  bosom 
of  his  faithful  page,  and  wept  long  and  pas- 
sionately, promising,  at  the  same  time, 
amendment  of  his  faults  if  ever  it  should 
please  his  Heavenly  Father  to  raise  him  up 
from  the  bed  of  sickness  on  which  he  then 
lay. 

How  careful  should  young  people  be  to 
perform  the  resolutions  of  correcting  their 
evil  habits  which  they  make  at  moments 
when  sickness  or  adversity  brings  them  to 
a  recollection  of  their  evil  propensities. 
Yet,  alas !  how  often  is  it  that  such  prom- 
ises are  forgotten,  as  soon  as  they  find  them- 
selves in  a  condition  to  repeat  their  faults. 

Thus  it  was  with  Prince  Edwin.  Instead 
of  seeking  the  assistance  of  a  higher  power 
than  his  own  w^eak  will  to  strengthen  and 
support  him  in  the  right  path,  he  contented 
himself  with  sa3dng,  ' '  I  am  determined  to 
begin  a  fresh  course ;  to  correct  my  hasty, 
imperious  temper;  to  pursue  my  studies 
steadily  and  perseveringly ;  and  to  shun  the 
society  of  those  who,  by  flattery  and  false 
speaking,  seek  to  increase  my  foolish  van- 
ity, and  impede  my  improvement!" 


222  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

Now  it  was  easy  to  say  all  this,  but  very 
difficult  to  put  these  good  resolutions  into 
practice.  Prince  Edwin,  neglecting  to  im- 
plore the  Divine  aid  to  strengthen  him  in 
their  performance,  soon  yielded  to  tempta- 
tion, and  in  a  little  time,  listened  to  the 
pernicious  flatteries  of  Brithric  with  as 
much  pleasure  as  he  had  done  before  the 
period  of  his  sickness. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  the  faithful 
Wilfrid  remonstrated  with  him,  and  pointed 
out  the  fatal  consequences  that  result  from 
listening  to  the  false  commendations  of 
those  who  pay  no  regard  to  truth.  Prince 
Edwun  loved  to  hear  himself  praised,  even 
for  those  very  qualities  in  which  he  was 
most  deficient.  He  grew  weary  of  Wil- 
frid's admonitions,  and  frequently  reproved 
him  when  he  ventured  to  reason  with  him,  or 
attempted  to  offer  the  counsel  of  a  true  friend. 

Brithric  was,  as  I  said  before,  much  older 
than  the  prince  or  any  of  the  royal  wards. 
He  -was  artful  and  ambitious,  and  had 
formed  in  his  heart  a  wicked  project  for  his 
own  advancement,  which  was  too  likely  to 
plunge  the  country  into  the  horrors  of  a 
civil  war.  This  project  was  no  less  than 
that  of  attempting  to  induce  Prince  Edwin 
to  set  himself  up  for  king,  and  to  claim  the 
throne  as  the  eldest  legitimate  son  of  the 
late  King  Edward. 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     223 

In  all  this,  Brithric  was  very  ungrateful 
to  King  Athelstane,  who  had  been  very 
kind  to  him,  and  had  recently  appointed 
him  to  the  honorable  office  of  his  cup-bearer. 
That  employment,  however,  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  content  Brithric,  who  perceived 
that  King  Athelstane  was  too  wise  a  prince 
to  listen  to  artful  flattery  or  to  allow  any 
person  of  his  court  to  obtain  an  undue  in- 
fluence over  his  mind. 

"Ah!"  said  Brithric  to  himself,  '^ if  Ed- 
win were  king,  I  should  be  his  chief  favor- 
ite. Wealth  and  honors  would  be  at  my 
disposal;  and  as  he  believes  everything 
I  say  to  him  I  should  be  able  to  govern 
him,  and  persuade  him  to  do  whatever  I 
wished. ' ' 

Brithric  had  soon  an  opportunity  of  in- 
troducing this  treasonable  project  to  Prince- 
Edwin  ;  for  King  Athelstane  sent  him  with 
a  letter  to  the  head  of  the  college;  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  delivered  it  he  paid  a  visit 
to  Prince  Edwin,  whom  he  found  in  his 
own  chamber,  engaged  with  Wilfrid  in 
brightening  his  arrows. 

"So,  Brithric,"  said  the  prince,  "do  you 
bring  me  an  invitation  to  the  court  of  the 
king,  my  brother?" 

Brithric  shook  his  head,  and  replied, 
"No,  my  prince;  King  Athelstane  has  no 
wish  to  see  you  there.     Take  my  word  for 


224  The  Childr 671^8  Portio7z. 

it,  he  will  never  give  you  an  invitation  to 
iis  court. ' ' 

"Why  not?"  asked  Prince  Edwin,  redden- 
ing with  sudden  anger. 

"King  Athelstane  knows  that  you  have 
a  better  title  to  the  throne  than  himself, ' ' 
replied  Brithric.  "He  knows,  also,  that 
were  his  valiant  Thames  and  Kaldormen  to 
see  you,  they  would  be  very  likely  to  make 
you  king ;  for  you  are  possessed  of  far  more 
princely  qualities  than  the  base-born  Athel- 
stane. ' ' 

The  eyes  of  Prince  Edwin  brightened  at 
the  words  of  Brithric,  and  he  grasped  the 
arrow  which  he  had  in  his  hand  with  the 
air  of  one  who  holds  a  sceptre.  "Fie, 
Erithric,"  said  Wilfrid,  "how  can  you  be 
so  treacherous  to  your  royal  master  as  to 
speak  of  him  with  such  disrespect,  and  to 
put  such  dangerous  and  criminal  ideas  into 
the  mind  of  Prince  Edwin?" 

"Peace,  meddling  brat,"  cried  Edwin, 
angrily;  "who  asked  counsel  of  thee  in  this 
matter?" 

"There  are  vSome  things  which  it  would 
"be  a  crime  to  hear  in  silence, ' '  replied  Wil- 
frid; "and  I  implore  you,  my  dear,  dear 
lord,  by  all  the  love  that  once  united  you 
and  your  faithful  page  in  the  bonds  of 
friendship,  not  to  listen  to  the  fatal  sugges- 
tions of  the  false  Brithric. ' ' 


Prince  Edwin  arid  His  Page.     225 

"False  Brithric!' '  echoed  the  wily  temp- 
ter; **I  will  prove  myself  the  true  friend 
of  the  Atheling,  if  he  will  only  give  consent 
to  the  deed  by  which  I  will  make  him  this 
very  day  the  lord  of  England. ' ' 

* 'Impossible,"  cried  the  prince;  **you 
have  no  power  to  raise  me  to  the  throne  of 
my  father  Edward,  albeit  it  is  my  lawful 
inheritance." 

"The  usurper  Athelstane  knows  that  full 
well,"  observed  Brithric.  "Therefore  it  is 
that  you  are  kept  here,  like  a  bird  in  a  cage, 
leading  a  life  of  monkish  seclusion  in  an 
obscure  college,  instead  of  learning  to  wield 
the  battleaxe,  to  hurl  the  spear,  and  rein 
the  war-horse,  like  a  royal  Saxon  prince. ' ' 

"The  wily  tyrant  shall  find  that  Edwin 
the  Atheling  is  not  to  be  so  treated, ' '  ex- 
claimed the  prince,  yielding  to  a  burst  of 
passion. 

"You  have  no  remedy,  my  lord,"  said 
Brithric;  "for  the  people  love  the  usurper, 
and  know  nothing  of  his  imprisoned  brother,. 
Edwin,  the  rightful  king  of  England. ' ' 

"And  shall  I  always  be  immured,  like  a 
captived  thrush?"  asked  Edwin,  indig- 
nantly 

"Yes,  while  Athelstane  lives,  you  must 
expect  no  other  fate,"  said  Brithric.  "But 
what  if  Athelstane  should  die?"  continued 
he,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  prince. 


226  The  Childrcji's  Portion. 

"Oh  !  hear  him  not,  my  lord, ' '  cried  Wil- 
frid, flinging  himself  at  the  Atheling's 
feet;  **he  would  tempt  you  to  a  crime  as 
"deadly  as  that  of  Cain. ' ' 

** Peace,  son  of  Cendric,  the  traitor!"  ex- 
'claimed  Prince  Edwin,  leveling  at  the  same 
time  a  blow  at  his  faithful  page,  which 
felled  him  to  the  earth,  where  he  lay  cov- 
ered with  blood,  and  apparently  without 
sense  or  motion. 

"And  now  speak  on, my  loving  Brithric, ' ' 
continued  the  Atheling,  without  paying  the 
slightest  regard  to  the  condition  of  poor 
Wilfrid,  who  was,  however,  perfectly  aware 
of  all  that  was  passing,  though,  to  all  ap- 
pearance,   insensible. 

' '  My  lord, ' '  said  Brithric,  drawing  nearer 
to  the  Atheling,  **I  will  now  speak  plainly. 
I  am  the  cup-bearer  of  King  Athel.stane, 
-and  the  next  time  I  present  the  red  wine  to 
him  at  the  banquet  it  shall  be  drugged  with 
such  a  draught  as  shall  make  Prince  Edwin 
lord  of  England  within  an  hour  after  the 
usurper  has  swallowed  it. ' ' 

"Traitor,  begone ! ' '  exclaimed  the  prince, 
filled  with  horror  at  this  dreadful  proposal. 
"I  would  not  stain  my  soul  with  the  crime 
of  murder,  if  b}-  such  means  I  could  obtain 
the  empire  of  the  world. ' ' 

Brithric  used  many  wicked  arguments 
ito  induce  Prince  Edwin  to  consent  to  the 


Prince  Edwin  and  Hh  Page.     227 

murder  of  his  royal  brother;  but  Edwin 
commanded  him  to  leave  his  presence, 
and  never  to  presume  to  enter  it  again. 
The  vile  wretch,  however,  alarmed  lest 
the  prince  should  inform  the  king  of  the 
crime  he  had  meditated  against  him,  went 
to  his  royal  master  and  accused  the  Athel- 
ing  of  having  endeavored  to  persuade  him 
to  mix  poison  in  the  w^ine  cup  of  his 
sovereign. 

Athelstane,  justly  indignant  at  the  crime 
laid  to  the  charge  of  his  royal  brother,  came 
with  a  party  of  guards  to  the  college.  Here, 
before  his  preceptors  and  all  the  royal  wards, 
his  companions,  he  charged  Edwin  with 
liaving  meditated  the  crime  of  treason  and 
fratricide. 

You  may  imagine  the  consternation  of 
the  prince  on  hearing  this  dreadful  accusa- 
tion. It  was  to  no  purpose  that  he  pro- 
tested his  innocence,  and  called  on  all  his 
faithful  associates  to  witness  for  him  that 
he  had  never  uttered  an  injurious  thought 
against  the  king.  Those  who  had  been  most 
ready  to  flatter  him  were  silent  on  this  oc- 
casion, for  they  perceived  that  King  Athel- 
stane was  persuaded  of  his  brother's  guilt ; 
and  some  of  them  said,  **They  remembered 
that  Prince  Edwin  had  often  said  that  he 
had  a  better  title  to  the  throne  than  King 
Athelstane. ' ' 


228  The  Children'' s  Portiori. 

Prince  Edwin  could  not  deny  that  he  had 
used  these  words;  but  it  seemed  to  him  very 
hard  that  they  should  be  repeated  to  the 
king  in  the  hour  of  his  sore  distress.  lyook- 
ing  around,  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  mingled  sorrow  and  indignation,  he 
said, — 

* '  Unhappy  that  I  am !  tliej^  that  were  my 
most  familiar  friends  are  they  that  speak 
against  me !  Is  there  no  one  that  can  bear 
me  witness  that  I  am  guiltless  of  the  crime 
of  plotting  to  take  away  my  brother's  life?'* 

"I  will,  though  I  die  for  it!"  cried  a 
voice,  feeble  from  bodily  suffering,  but  firm 
in  the  courageous  utterance  of  truth.  It 
was  that  of  Wilfrid,  the  page,  who,  with 
his  countenance  still  pale  and  disfigured 
from  the  effects  of  the  blow  received  from 
Prince  Edwin,  stood  boldly  forward  to  bear 
witness  of  the  scene  which  had  taken  place 
in  his  presence  between  Brithric  and  the 
prince. 

'*0h,  Wilfrid,  generous  Wilfrid,"  cried 
Edwin,  bursting  into  tears,  "how  nobly  do 
you  fulfill  the  precepts  of  3^our  heavenly 
Master  by  returning  good  for  evil!" 

Now  Athelstane  had  been  so  deeply  pre- 
judiced against  his  unfortunate  brother  by 
the  wicked  Brithric,  that  he  would  not 
listen  to  Wilfrid's  honest  evidence.  When, 
therefore,  he  heard  that  he  was  the  son  of 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page,     229 

the  traitor  Cendric,  who  had  been  so  deeply 
implicated  in  Alfred's  plot,  he  was  so  un- 
just as  to  believe  all  that  Brithric  vSaid 
against  him.  Accordingly,  he  took  Wil- 
frid, as  well  as  the  young  Atheling,  and 
carried  them  prisoners  to  London.  He 
there  put  them  on  board  a  ship  that  was 
lying  in  the  river  Thames,  and  when  night 
came,  set  sail  wnth  them  and  went  out  to 
sea. 

Chapter  IV. 

Prince  Edwin  was  not  greatly  alarmed, 
for  he  thought  the  king,  his  brother,  w^as 
only  going  to  banish  him  to  some  foreign 
country,  where  he  fondly  thought  that 
Wilfrid  and  himself  might  live  together 
very  happily.  But  when  the}^  were  out  of 
sight  of  land,  and  the  moon  had  risen  over 
a  wild  waste  of  stormy  billows,  the  king 
had  both  the  prisoners  brought  upon  deck, 
and  he  then  ordered  the  captain  to  put 
them  into  a  small  boat  and  set  them  adrift 
at  the  mercy  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  the  wretched 
Edwin  threw  himself  at  his  brother's  feet, 
and  entreated  for  mercy.  Athelstane  only 
replied,  "You  tried  to  persuade  my  faith- 
ful cup-bearer  to  take  my  life — j^our  own 
life,  therefore,  is  forfeited;  but,  as  you  are 
the  son  of  my  royal  father,  I  will  not  shed 


230  TJie  Children'' s  Portion. 

your  blood  upon  the  scaffold.  I  commit 
3'ou  and  your  guilty  companion,  the  son  of 
the  traitor  Cendric,  to  the  mercy  of  God, 
who  can  and  will  preserve  the  innocent  if 
it  be  his  good  pleasure  so  to  do. ' ' 

**And  to  His  mercy,  not  thine,  O  king! 
do  I,  in  full  confidence  of  innocence,  com- 
mend both  myself  and  my  unfortunate  mas- 
ter,"  said  Wilfrid,  as  the  seamen  hurried 
him,  with  the  weeping  Atheling,  over  the 
side  of  the  vessel  into  the  little  boat  that 
lay  tossing  and  rocking  among  the  tem- 
pestuous billows. 

When  the  unhappy  youths  found  them- 
selves alone,  without  sails  or  rudder,  on  the 
pathless  ocean,  they  sank  into  each  other's 
arms  and  wept  long  and  passionately. 

At  length  Wilfrid  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
heart  in  fervent  prayer  to  that  Almighty  and 
merciful  God,  who  had  delivered  Daniel  from 
the  lions'  den,  and  preserved  his  faithful 
servants,  Meshach,Shadrach  and  Abednego, 
tiuharmed  in  the  fiery  furnace.  Prince  Ed- 
win, on  the  contrary,  gave  himself  up  to 
despair,  and  when  he  saw  the  king's  ship 
spreading  her  canvas  to  the  gale,  and  fast 
receding  from  his  sight,  he  uttered  a  cry 
that  was  heard  above  the  uproar  of  the 
winds  and  waves.  Starting  up  in  the  boat, 
and  extending  his  arms  toward  the  disap- 
pearing vessel,  he  unwittingly  lost  his  bal- 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     231 

ance,  and  was  in  a  moment  ingulfed  in  the 
stormy  billows. 

We  may  imagine  the  anguish  and  terror 
of  Wilfrid  on  witnessing  the  sad  fate  of  his 
young  lord,  which  he  had  no  power  to  pre- 
vent. Thoughts  of  his  widowed  mother's 
grief  for  himself,  too,  came  over  his  mind 
and  filled  his  eyes  with  tears,  for  her,  as 
well  as  for  his  ill-fated  lord.  For  himself, 
however,  he  felt  no  fears,  even  in  this 
dreadful  hour,  when  left  companionless 
on  the  tempestuous  ocean,  for  his  trust  was 
firm  and  steadfast  in  the  mercies  of  his 
Heavenly  Father. 

That  night  the  winds  roared,  and  the 
weaves  raged  mightily.  Many  a  gallant 
bark  foundered  in  the  storm,  and  many  a 
skillful  seaman  found  awater}^  grave  before 
the  morning  dawned  in  the  cloudy  horizon. 
I  But  the  frail  vessel  into  which  the  unfortu- 
nate Atheling  and  his  page  had  been  thrust, 
weathered  the  gale  and,  with  her  lonel}' 
tenant,  Wilfrid,  was  driven  ashore  at  a 
place  called  Whitesande,  on  the  coast  of 
Picardy,  in  France. 

When  Wilfrid  landed,  he  was  drenched 
through  and  through.  He  was  hungr>', 
too,  and  sorrowful  and  wear^^  He  knew 
not  where  he  was,  but  he  failed  not  to  re- 
turn thanks  to  that  gracious  God  who  had 
preser^' ed  him  from  the  perils  of  the  raging 


232  The  Children'' s  Portion, 

seas  to  which  he  had  been  so  awfully  ex- 
posed, and  whose  merciful  providence,  he 
doubted  not,  would  guide  and  sustain  him 
in  the  strange  land  whither  he  had  been 
conducted. 

Thus  meekly,  thus  nobly,  did  the  young 
page  support  himself  under  this  fresh  trial. 
But  when  the  remembrance  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Atheling,  his  royal  master,  came  over 
him,  his  heart  melted  within  him;  he 
bowed  his  face  on  his  knees  as  he  sat  all 
lonely  on  the  sea  beach,  and  he  wept  aloud, 
exclaiming — 

"Oh,  Edwin!  royal  Edwin!  hadst  thou 
patiently  trusted  in  the  mercy  of  God  thou 
mightest,  notwithstanding  thy  late  adver- 
sity, have  lived  to  wear  the  crown  of  thy 
father  Edward."  Overpowered  by  his 
emotions,  he  again  sank  upon  the  ground. 

"Is  it  of  Edwin  of  England  that  thou 
speakest,  young  Saxon?"  asked  a  soft  voice 
in  the  sweet  familiar  language  of  his  own 
native  land. 

He  raised  his  head  and  found  that  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  party  of  ladies,"  one  of 
whom  questioned  him  with  an  air  of  eager 
interest  respecting  the  expressions  he  had 
used  touching  the  unfortunate  Prince  Ed- 
win. 

Now  this  lady  was  no  other  than  Ogina, 
Queen    of    France,    the    sister    of    Prince 


Prmce  Edwin  and  His  Page.      233 

Edwin.  Being  on  a  visit  at  the  house  of  a 
great  lord  on  the  coast  of  Picardy,  she  had 
come  down  to  the  beach  that  morning,  with 
her  ladies  of  honor,  to  bathe:  a  custom 
among  ladies,  even  of  the  highest  rank,  in 
those  days.  Hearing  that  a  Saxon  bark 
had  been  driven  on  shore  by  the  storm,  and 
seeing  the  disconsolate  figure  of  Wilfrid 
on  the  beach,  she  had  drawn  near,  and,  un- 
perceived  by  the  suffering  youth,  had  over- 
heard his  melancholy  soliloquy. 

While  Wilfrid  related  the  sad  story  of  his 
master's  untimely  fate,  the  royal  lady  wept 
aloud.  After  he  had  concluded  his  melan- . 
choly  tale,  she  took  him  to  the  castle  of 
which  she  was  herself  an  inmate,  and  com- 
mended him  to  the  care  of  her  noble  host, 
who  quickly  attended  to  all  his  w^ants,  and 
furnished  him  with  dr>'  garments. 

When  Wilfrid  had  taken  due  rest  and 
refreshment,  the  queen  requested  that  he 
should  be  brought  into  her  presence.  He 
was,  accordingly,  ushered  into  a  stately 
apartment,  where  Ogina  was  seated  under 
a  crimson  canopy,  fringed  with  gold.  She 
bade  him  draw  near,  and  extended  her  hand 
■toward  him.  Being  well  acquainted  with 
courtly  customs,  the  youth  respectfully 
bowed  his  knee  and  humbly  kissed  the 
hand  of  the  royal  lady,  who  proceeded  to 
say, — 


234  '^h^  Children's  Portion. 

"Thou  hast  been  found  true  when  the 
only  reward  thou  didst  expect  for  thy  faith- 
fulness was  a  cruel  death.  But  surely  thou 
hast  been  conducted  b}"  a  kind  Providence 
into  the  presence  of  one  who  has  both  the 
will  and  the  power  to  requite  thee  for  thy 
fidelity  to  the  unfortunate  Atheling;  for  I 
am  his  sister,  the  Queen  of  France. ' ' 

' '  And  I  have  then  the  honor  to  stand  be- 
fore the  royal  Ogina  ,  daughter  of  my  late 
lord,  King  Edward,  and  Queen  of  King 
Charles  of  PVance?"  said  Wilfrid,  again 
bowing  himself. 

"The  same,"  replied  the  queen,  taking  a 
ring  of  great  value  from  her  finger  and  plac- 
ing it  on  that  of  the  page. 

"Take  this  ring,"  continued  she,  "in 
token  of  my  favor;  and  if  thou  wilt  serve 
me  in  one  thing,  I  will  make  thee  the  great- 
est lord  in  my  husband's  court. ' ' 

"Royal  lady,"  said  Wilfrid,  "I  have  a 
widowed  mother  in  my  own  land  whom  I 
cannot  forsake ;  neither  would  I  desert  my 
native  country  to  become  a  peer  of  France. 
But  tell  me  wherein  I  can  be  of  service  to 
thee,  and  if  it  be  in  my  power  it  shall  be 
done. ' ' 

" Barest  thou, "  said  the  queen,  "return 
to  England  and  presenting  thyself  before 
my  brother  Athelstane,  thy  king,  declare 
to    him   the    innocence   and   the   sad   fate 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page.     235 

of  Edwin,  the  Atheling,  his  father's 
son?" 

'Xady,  I  not  only  dare,  but  I  desire  so 
to  do,"  replied  Wilfrid;  "for  I  fear  my 
God,  and  I  have  no  other  fear. ' ' 

Then  the  Queen  of  France  loaded  Wil- 
frid with  rich  presents,  and  sent  him  over 
to  England  in  a  gallant  ship  to  bear  the 
mournful  tidings  of  poor  Prince  Edwin's 
death  to  England's  king.  She  thought 
that  when  Athelstane  should  hear  the  sad 
tale  told  in  the  pathetic  language  of  the 
faithful  page,  his  heart  would  be  touched 
with  remorse  for  what  he  had  done. 

Now  King  Athelstane  was  already  con- 
science-stricken for  his  conduct  toward  his 
brother  Edwin.  His  ship,  during  the  same 
night  that  he  had  compelled  him  to  enter 
the  boat  with  Wilfrid,  was  terribly  tossed 
by  the  tempest,  and  he  felt  that  the  ven- 
geance of  God  was  upon  him  for  his  hard- 
ness of  heart.  The  crew  of  the  royal  vessel 
had  toiled  and  labored  all  night,  and  it  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  ship  was  at 
length  got  into  port.  Every  individual  on 
board,  as  well  as  the  king  himself,  felt  con- 
vinced that  the  storm  was  a  visitation  upon 
them  for  what  they  had  done. 

King  Athelstane  had  become  very  melan- 
choly and  offered  large  rewards  to  any 
one   who   would   bring    him   news   of   his 


236  The  Children's  Porfwii. 

unfortunate  brother;  and  he  looked  with 
horror  upon  Brithric  as  the  cause  of  his 
having  dealt  so  hardly  with  Edwin.  One 
da3%  when  Brithric  was  waiting  at  table  with 
the  king's  cup,  it  happened  that  his  foot 
slipped,  and  he  would  have  fallen  if  he  had 
uot  dexterously  saved  himself  with  the  other 
foot:  observ^ing  some  of  the  courtiers  smile, 
lie  cried  out  jestingly,  "See  you,  my  lords, 
how  one  brother  helps  the  other. ' ' 

''It  is  thus  that  brother  should  aid 
brother,"  said  the  king;  "but  it  was  thee, 
false  traitor,  that  did  set  me  against  mine ! 
for  the  which  thou  shalt  surely  pay  the  for- 
feit of  thy  life  in  the  same  hour  that  tid- 
ings are  brought  me  of  his  death. ' ' 

At  that  moment  Wilfrid,  presenting  him- 
self before  the  king,  said,  "King  Athel- 
stane,  I  bring  thee  tidings  of  Edwin  the 
Atheling!" 

"The  fairest  earldom  in  my  kingdom 
shall  be  the  reward  of  him  who  will  tell  me 
that  my  brother  liveth,"  exclaimed  the 
king  eagerly. 

"If  thou  wouldst  give  the  royal  crown 
of  England  from  off  thine  head  it  would 
not  bribe  the  deep  sea  to  give  up  its  dead!" 
replied  the  page. 

"Who  art  thou  that  speakest  .such  woeful 
words?"   demanded  Athelstane,  fixing  his 


Prince  Edwi7i  and  His  Page.     237 

eyes  with  a  doubting  and  fearful  scrutiny 
on  the  face  of  the  page. 

"Hast  thou  forgotten  Wilfrid,  the  son  of 
Cendric?"  replied  the  3'outh;  "he  who  com- 
mended himself  to  the  mercy  of  the  King 
of  kings,  in  that  dark  hour  when  thy 
brother  Edwin  implored  for  thine  in 
vain." 

"Ha!"  cried  the  king,  "I remember  thee 
now;  thou  art  the  pale  vStripling  who  bore 
witness  of  my  brother's  innocence  of  the 
crime  with  which  the  false-ton gued  Brithric 
charged  him!" 

"The  same,  my  lord,"  said  Wilfrid; 
"and  God  hath  witnessed  for  my  truth  by 
preserving  me  from  the  waters  of  the  great 
deep,  to  which  thou  didst  commit  me  with 
my  lord,  Prince  Edwin." 

'  *  But  Edwin — m}^  brother  Edwin  !  tell  me 
of  him!"  cried  Athelstane,  grasping  the 
shoulder  of  the  page. 

"Did  not  his  drowning  cry  reach  thine 
ear,  royal  Athelstane?"  asked  Wilfrid, 
bursting  into  tears.  "Ere  thy  tall  vessel 
had  disappeared  from  our  sight  the  fair- 
haired  Atheling  was  ingulfed  in  the  storm}^ 
billows  that  swelled  round  our  frail  bark, 
and  I,  only  I,  am,  by  the  especial  mercy  of 
God,  preserved  to  tell  thee  the  sad  fate  of 
thy  father's  son,  whom  thou  wert,   in  an 


2 33  The  Children's  Portion. 

evil  hour,  moved  by  a  treacherous  villain  to 
destroy. ' ' 

* 'Traitor,"  said  the  king,  turning  to 
Brithric,  ''thy  false  tongue  hath  not  only 
slain  my  brother,  but  thyself !  Thou  shalt 
die  for  having  wickedly  induced  me  to  be- 
come his  murderer ! ' ' 

"And  thou  wilt  live,  O  king,  to  suffer 
the  pangs  of  an  upbraiding  conscience," 
replied  the  culprit.  "Where  was  thy  wis- 
dom, where  thy  discrimination,  where  thy 
sense  of  justice,  when  thou  lent  so  ready  an 
ear  to  my  false  and  improbable  accusations 
against  thy  boyish  brother  ?  I  sought  my  own 
aggrandizement — and  to  have  achieved  that 
I  would  have  destroyed  thee  and  placed  him 
upon  the  throne.  I  made  him  my  tool — 
you  became  my  dupe — and  I  now  myself 
fall  a  victim  to  my  own  machinations. ' ' 

The  guards  then  removed  Brithric  from 
the  royal  presence,  and  the  next  day  he  met 
with  his  deserts  in  a  public  execution. 

As  for  the  faithful  Wilfrid,  King  Athel- 
stane  not  only  caused  the  lands  and  titles 
of  which  his  father,  Cendric,  had  been  de- 
prived, to  be  restored  to  him,  but  also  con- 
ferred upon  him  great  honors  and  rewards. 
He  lived  to  be  the  pride  and  comfort  of  his 
widowed  mother,  Ermengarde,  and  ever 
afterward  enjoyed  the  full  confidence  of 
the  king. 


Prince  Edwin  and  His  Page,     239 

The  royal  Athelstane  never  ceased  to  la- 
ment the  death  of  his  unfortunate  brother, 
Edwin.  He  gained  many  great  victories, 
and  reigned  long  and  gloriously  over  Eng- 
land, but  he  was  evermore  tormented  by 
remorse  of  conscience  for  his  conduct  to- 
ward his  youthful  brother,  Prince  Edwin. 


CISSY'S  AMENDMENT. 

BY  ANNA  r..   PARKER. 

She  was  a  dainty,  blue-eyed,  golden- 
haired  darling,  who  had  ruled  her  kingdom 
but  four  short  years  when  the  events  in  our 
history  occurred.  Very  short  the  four  years 
had  seemed,  for  the  baby  princess  brought 
into  the  quiet  old  house  such  a  wealth  of 
love,  with  its  golden  sunshine,  that  time 
had  passed  rapidly  since  her  arrival,  as 
time  always  does  when  we  are  happy  and 
contented. 

Our  little  princess  did  not  owe  her  title 
to  royal  birth,  but  to  her  unquestioned  sway 
over  those  around  her ;  a  rule  in  which  was 
so  happily  blended  entreaty  and  command 
that  her  willing  subjects  were  never  quite 
sure  to  which  they  were  yielding.  But  of 
one  thing  they  were  sure,  which  was  that 
the  winning  grace  of  the  little  sovereign 
equaled  their  pleasures  in  obeying  her 
small  commands,  and  the  added  fact — a 
very  important  one — that  this  queen  of 
hearts  never  abused  her  power. 

No  little  brothers  nor  sisters  were  num- 
bered among  the  princess'  retainers,  but  she 
had  had  from  her  babyhood  an  inseparable 
companion  and  playfellow  in  Moses.  Now 
240 


Cissy^s  Amendment.  241 

Moses  was  a  big  brown  dog  who,  like  his 
namesake  of  old,  had  been  rescued  from  a 
watery  grave,  and  it  chanced  that  baby-girl 
and  baby-dog  became  inmates  of  the  quiet 
old  house  about  the  same  time.  But  the 
dog  grew  much  faster  than  the  little  girl, 
as  dogs  are  wont  to  do,  and  was  quite  a  re- 
sponsible person  by  the  time  Cissy  could 
toddle  around.  When  she  was  old  enough 
to  play  under  the  old  elm  tree  Moses  as- 
sumed the  place  of  protector  of  her  little 
highness,  and  was  all  the  bodyguard  the 
princess  needed,  for  he  was  wise  and  un- 
wearied in  his  endeavors  to  guard  her  from 
all  mishaps.  But,  although  Moses  felt  the 
responsibility  of  his  position,  he  did  not 
consider  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  amuse  his 
mistress,  and  so  they  played  together,  baby 
and  dog,  shared  their  lunch  together,  and 
frequently  took  their  nap  together  of  a 
warm  afternoon,  the  golden  curls  of  the 
little  princess  tumbled  over  Moses'  broad, 
shaggy  shoulder. 

One  day  when  Cissy  was  about  four 
years  old  an  event  occurred  in  her  life  that 
seemed  for  a  time  to  endanger  the  intimacy 
between  the  little  girl  and  her  four-footed 
friend,  and  caused  Moses  considerable  anx- 
iety. It  was  a  rainy  morning  and  she 
could  not  play  under  the  trees  as  usual,  so 
she  took  her  little  chair  and  climbed  up  to 


242  The  Children's  Portion, 

the  window  to  see  if  the  trees  were  lone- 
some without  her.  Something  unusual 
going  on  in  the  house  next  door  attracted 
her  attention,  and  her  disappointment  was 
soon  forgotten.  No  one  had  lived  in  the 
house  since  the  little  girl  could  remember. 
Now  the  long  closed  doors  and  windows 
were  thrown  wide  open,  and  men  were  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  steps.  She  was  puz- 
zled to  know  what  it  could  all  mean,  and 
kept  her  little  face  close  to  the  window,  and 
was  so  unmindful  of  Moses  that  he  felt 
•quite  neglected  and  lonely. 

The  following  morning  was  warm  and 
bright,  and  the  little  princess  and  her  atten- 
dant were  playing  under  the  trees  again. 
Moses  was  so  delighted  in  having  won  the 
sole  attention  of  his  little  mistress  and 
played  so  many  droll  pranks  that  Cissy 
shouted  with  laughter.  In  the  midst  of 
her  merriment  she  chanced  to  look  up,  and 
saw  through  the  paling  a  pair  of  eyes  as 
bright  as  her  own,  dancing  with  fun  and 
evidently  enjoying  Moses'  frolic  quite  as 
much  as  the  little  girl  herself.  The  bright 
eyes  belonged  to  a  little  boy  about  Cissy's 
age,  whose  name  was  Jamie,  and  who  had 
moved  into  the  house  that  had  interested 
her  so  much  the  day  before. 

Now  our  little  princess  in  her  winning 
way  claimed  the  allegiance  of  all  that  came 


Cissy^s  Amendment.  243 

"within  her  circle,  and  so  confidently  ran 
over  to  the  fence  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  her  new  subject.  Jamie  was  quite  will- 
ing to  be  one  of  her  servitors,  and  although 
they  were  separated  b}^  the  high  palings 
they  visited  through  the  openings  all  the 
morning,  and  for  many  mornings  after,  ex- 
changing dolls,  books,  balls,  and  strings, 
and  becoming  the  best  of  friends.  This 
new  order  of  things  was  not  quite  satisfac- 
tory to  Moses,  who  felt  he  was  no  longer 
necessary  to  Cissy's  happiness.  He  still 
kept  his  place  close  beside  her,  and  tried  to 
be  as  entertaining  as  possible.  But  do 
what  he  would  he  could  not  coax  her  awa}^ 
from  her  new-found  friend,  and  all  the 
merry  plays  under  the  old  elm  tree  seemed 
to  have  come  to  an  end,  but  Cissy  was  not 
really  ungrateful  to  her  old  playfellow.  She 
was  deeply  interested  in  her  new  compan- 
ion and  for  the  time  somewhat  forgetful  of 
Moses,  which  is  not  much  to  be  wondered 
at  when  we  remember  what  great  advantage 
over  Moses  Jamie  had  in  one  thing.  He 
could  talk  with  Cissy  and  Moses  could  not. 
But  although  the  dog's  faithful  heart  ached 
at  the  neglect  of  his  little  mistress,  he  did 
not  desert  his  place  of  protector,  but 
watched  and  guarded  the  princess  while 
she  and  her  friend  prattled  on  all  the  long, 
hright  days,  quite  unconscious  of  his 
trouble. 


244  '^^^^  Childroi^s  Portion, 

One  afternoon  Ciss3''s  happiness  reached 
its  highest  point.  Her  mother  had  been 
watching  the  visiting  going  on  through  the 
fence,  and  saw  Cissj-'s  delight  in  her  new 
companion,  so,  unknown  to  her,  she  wrote 
a  note  asking  that  Jamie  be  permitted  to 
come  into  the  yard  and  play  under  the  elm 
tree.  When  Cissy  saw  Jamie  coming  up 
the  walk  in  her  own  yard,  her  delight  knew 
no  bounds.  She  ran  to  meet  him,  and  dolls 
and  buggies  and  carts  and  everything  .she 
prized  was  generously  turned  over  to  her 
visitor.   How  quickly  the  afternoon  passed. 

Moses  was  as  happy  as  the  children  them- 
selves— for  if  he  could  not  talk  he  could  at 
least  bark,  and  now  they  were  altogether 
under  the  tree,  his  troubles  were  forgotten 
and  which  were  the  happier,  children  or 
dog,  it  were  hard  to  say.  So  with  merry 
play  the  beautiful  day  came  to  a  close.  The 
sun  was  sending  up  his  long  golden  beams 
in  the  west.  Jamie  was  called  home,  and 
Cissy  came  into  the  house.  The  tired  little 
eyes  were  growing  drowsy  and  the  soft  curls 
drooped  over  the  nodding  head  when  mam- 
ma undressed  her  little  girl  to  make  her 
ready  for  bed.  Then  Cissy  knelt  beside 
her  little  bed  and  repeated  the  prayer  she 
had  been  taught :  ' '  Now,  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,"  and  "God  bless  papa  and  mamma 
and   everybody,  and   make  Cissy   a   good 


Ctssy^s  Amendment.  245 

girl. ' '  But  when  she  had  done  she  did  not 
rise  as  usual ;  looking  up  earnestly  at  her 
mother,  she  said:  "Please,  mamma,  I  want 
to  pray  my  own  prayer  now. ' '  Then  fold- 
ing her  little  hands,  the  sweet  childish  voice 
took  on  an  earnestness  it  had  not  shown 
before,  as  she  said:  **  Dear  Father  in 
heaven,  I  thank  you  for  making  Jamie,  and 
'cause  his  mamma  let  him  come  in  my  yard 
to  play.  Please  make  lots  more  Jamies, '* 
and  with  this  sincere  expression  of  her 
grateful  heart,  and  her  loving  recognition 
that  all  our  blessings  come  from  the  Father 
above,  the  tired,  happy  little  girl  w^as  ready 
for  bed,  and  soon   asleep. 

Moses  lay  sleeping  contentedly  on  the  rug 
beside  the  princess'  little  bed.  He  too  had 
had  a  happy  day.  I  wonder  if  he  had 
any  way  to  express  his  thankfulness  to  his 
Creator,  the  same  Father  in  heaven  to 
which  Cissy  prayed,  for  the  love  and  com- 
panionship of  his  little  playfellows,  and  for 
the  bright,  happy  day  he  had  spent  ?  I  be- 
lieve he  had.  What  do  you  think  about 
it? 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 

AS  TOI.D  BY  MARY  SEYMOUR. 

Leontes  of  Sicily,  and  Hermione,  his 
lovely  queen,  lived  together  in  the  greatest 
harmony — a  harmony  and  happiness  so  per- 
fect that  the  king  said  he  had  no  wish  left 
to  gratify  excepting  the  desire  to  see  his 
old  companion  Polixenes,  and  present  him 
to  the  friendship  of  his  wife. 

Polixenes  was  king  of  Bohemia ;  and  it 
was  not  until  he  had  received  many  invita- 
tions that  he  came  to  visit  his  friend  Leon- 
tes of  Sicily. 

At  first  this  was  the  cause  of  great  joy. 
It  seemed  that  Leontes  never  tired  of  talk- 
ing over  the  scenes  of  bygone  days  with 
his  early  friend,  while  Hermione  listened 
well  pleased.  But  when  Polixenes  washed 
to  depart,  and  both  the  king  and  the  queen 
entreated  him  to  remain  yet  longer,  it  was 
the  gentle  persuasion  of  Hermione  which 
overcame  his  resistance,  rather  than  the 
desire  of  his  friend  Leontes,  who  upon  this 
grew  both  angry  and  jealous,  and  began  to 
hate  Polixenes  as  much  as  he  had  loved  him. 

At  length  his  feelings  became  so  violent 
that  he  gave  an  order  for  the  King  of  Bo- 
hemia to  be  killed.  But  fortunately  he 
246 


The  Winter'^ s  Tale. 


247 


intrusted  the  execution  of  this  command  to 
Camillo — a  good  man,  who  helped  his  in- 
tended victim  to  escape  to  his  own  domin- 
ions. At  this,  Leontes  was  still  more  angry 
and,  rushing  to  the  room  where  his  wife 
was  engaged  with  her  little  son  Mamillius 
took  the  child  away,  and  ordered  poor  Her- 
mione  to  prison. 


"  And  laid  her  precious  burden  at  his  feet.'' 

"While  she  was  there,  a  little  daughter 
was  born  to  her;  and  a  lady  who  heard  of 
this,  told  the  queen's  maid  Bmilia,  that  she 
would  carry  the  infant  into  the  presence  of 
its  father  if  she  might  be  intrusted  with  it, 
and  perhaps  his  heart  would  soften  toward 
his  wife  and  the  innocent  babe. 

Hermione   very  willingly  gave    up  her 


248  The  Children's  Fori  ion, 

little  daughter  into  the  arms  of  the  lady 
Paulina,  who  forced  herself  into  the  king's 
presence,  and  laid  her  precious  burden  at 
his  feet,  boldly  reproaching  him  with  his 
cruelty  to  the  queen.  But  Paulina's  serv^ices 
were  of  no  avail:  the  king  ordered  her 
away,  so  she  left  the  little  child  before  him, 
believing,  when  she  retired,  that  his  proud, 
angry  heart  w^ould  relent. 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Leontes  bade  one 
of  his  courtiers  take  the  infant  to  some 
desert  isle  to  perish;  and  Antigonus,  the 
husband  of  Paulina,  was  the  one  chosen  to 
execute  this  cruel  purpose. 

The  next  action  of  the  king  was  to  sum- 
mon Hermione  to  be  tried  for  having  loved 
Polixenes  too  well.  Already  he  had  had 
recourse  to  an  oracle;  and  the  answer, 
sealed  up,  was  brought  into  court  and 
opened  in  the  presence  of  the  much-injured 
queen : 

*' Hermione  is  innocent;  Polixenes  blame- 
less ;  Camillo  a  true  vSubject ;  Leontes  a  jeal- 
ous tyrant;  and  the  king  shall  live  without 
an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not  found. " 

Thus  it  ran ;  but  the  angry  king  said  it 
w^as  all  a  falsehood,  made  up  by  the  queen's 
friends,  and  he  bade  them  go  on  with  the 
trial.  Yet  even  as  he  spoke,  a  messenger 
entered  to  say  that  the  king's  sonMamillius 
had  died  suddenly,  grieving  for  his  mother. 


The  Winter's  Tale. 


249 


Hermione,  overcome  by  such  sad  tidings, 
fainted;  and  then  Leontes,  feeling  some 
pity  for  her,  bade  her  ladies  remove  her, 
and  do  allthat  was  possible  for  her  recovery. 
Very  soon  Paulina  returned,  saying  that 
Hermione,  the  queen,  was  also  dead.  Now 
Leontes  repented  of  his  harshness ;  now  he 
readily  believed  she  was  all  that  was  good 


''Hermione,  overcome  by  sjtch  xad  tidings,  fainted." 

and  pure;  and,  beginning  to  have  faith  in 
the  words  of  the  oracle  which  spoke  of  that 
which  was  lost  being  found,  declared  he 
would  give  up  his  kingdom  could  he  but 
recover  the  lost  baby  he  had  sent  to  perish. 
The  ship  which  had  conveyed  Antigonus 
with  the  infant  princess  awa}^  from  her 
father's  kingdom,  was  driven  onshore  upon 


250  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

the  Bohemian  territory,  over  which  Polix- 
enes  reigned.  Leaving  the  child  there^ 
Antigonus  started  to  return  to  his  ship ;  but 
a  savage  bear  met  and  destroyed  him,  so 
that  Leontes  never  heard  how  his  commands 
had  been  fulfilled. 

When  poor  Hermione  had  sent  her  baby 
in  Paulina's  care  to  be  shown  to  her  royal 
father,  she  had  dressed  it  in  its  richest  robes, 
and  thus  it  remained  when  Antigonus  left  it. 
Besides,  he  pinned  a  paper  to  its  mantle 
upon  which  the  name  Perdita  was  written. 

Happily,  a  kind-hearted  shepherd  found 
the  deserted  infant,  and  took  it  home  to  his 
wife,  who  cherished  it  as  her  own.  But 
they  concealed  the  fact  from  every  one ;  and 
lest  the  tale  of  the  jewels  upon  Perdita's 
little  neck  should  be  noised  abroad,  he  sold 
some  of  them,  and  leaving  that  part  of  the 
country,  bought  herds  of  sheep,  and  became 
a  wealthy  shepherd. 

Little  Perdita  grew  up  as  sweet  and  lovely 
as  her  unknown  mother ;  yet  she  was  sup- 
posed to  be  only  a  shepherd's  child. 

Polixenes  of  Bohemia  had  one  only  son 
— Florizel  by  name ;  who,  hunting  near  the 
shepherd's  dwelling,  saw  the  fair  maiden, 
whose  beauty  and  modesty  soon  won  his 
love.  Disguising  himself  as  a  private  gen- 
tleman, instead  of  appearing  as  the  king's 
son,  Florizel  took  the  name  of  Doricles,  and 


The  Winter^ s  Tale, 


251 


came  visiting  at  the  shepherd's  dwelling. 
So  often  was  he  there,  and  thus  so  fre- 
quently missed  at  court,  that  people  began 
to  watch  his  movements,  and  soon  discov- 
ered that  he  loved  the  pretty  maiden  Per- 
dita. 

When  this  news  was  carried  to  Polixenes, 


Young  lads  and  lassies  were  chaffering  with  a  peddler 

for  his  goods  J''' 


he  called  upon  his  faithful  servant  Camilla 
to  go  with  him  to  the  shepherd's  house;  and 
they  arrived  there  in  disguise  just  at  the 
feast  of  sheep-shearing,  when  there  w^as  a 
welcome  for  ever}^  visitor. 

It  was  a  busy  scene.  There  was  dancing 
on  the  green,  young  lads  and  lassies  were 
chaffering  with   a  peddler   for   his   goodsj 


252  The  Children's  Portion. 

sports  were  going  on  everywhere;  yet 
Florizel  and  Perdita  sat  apart,  talking  hap- 
pily to  each  other. 

No  one  could  have  recognized  the  king; 
-even  Florizel  did  not  observe  him  as  he 
drew  near  enough  to  listen  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  young  people.  Perdita's  way  of 
speaking  charmed  him  much — it  seemed 
something  very  different  to  the  speech  of  a 
shepherd's  daughter;  and,  turning  to  Ca- 
millo,  Polixenes  said : 

' '  Nothing  she  does  or  seems 
But  tastes  of  something  greater  than  her  self, 
Too  noble  for  this  place. ' ' 

Then  he  spoke  to  the  old  shepherd,  ask- 
ing the  name  of  the  youth  who  talked  to  his 
daughter. 

"They  call  him  Doricles,"  said  the  man; 
adding,  too,  that  if  he  indeed  loved  Perdita, 
he  would  receive  with  her  something  he  did 
not  reckon  on.  By  this  the  shepherd 
meant  a  part  of  her  rich  jewels  which  he 
liad  not  sold,  but  kept  carefully  until  such 
time  as  she  should  marry.  Polixenes  turned 
to  his  son,  telling  him  jestingly  that  he 
should  have  bought  some  gift  for  his  fair 
maid — not  let  the  peddler  go  without  seek- 
ing anything  for  her. 

Florizel  little  imagined  it  was  his  father 
talking  to  him,   and  he   replied   that   the 


The  Winter^ s  Tale. 


253 


gifts  Perdita  prized  were  those  contained 
within  his  heart;  and  then  he  begged  the 
''old  man"  to  be  a  witness  of  their  mar- 
riage. 

Still  keeping  up  his  disguise,  Polixenes 
asked  Florizel  if  he  had  no  father  to  bid  as 
a  guest  to  his  wedding.     But  the  young 


'Reproaching  his  son  bitterly  for  giving  his  love  to 
a  low-born  maiden.''' 


man  said  there  were  reasons  why  he  should 
not  speak  of  the  matter  to  his  father. 

Polixenes  chose  this  for  the  moment  in 
which  to  make  himself  known;  and  re- 
proaching his  son  bitterly  for  giving  his  love 
to  a  low-born  maiden,  bade  him  accompany 
Camillo  back  to  court. 

As  the  king  retired  thus  angr>^  Perdita 


254  '^^^^  Childreii's  Portion, 

said,  **I  was  not  much  afraid;  for  once  or 
twice  I  was  about  to  speak,  to  tell  him 
plainl}^ — 

"The  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Ivooks  on  alike.  " 

Then  she  sorrowfully  bade  Florizel  leave 
her. 

Camillo  felt  sorry  for  the  two,  and  thought 
of  a  way  in  which  he  could  stand  their 
friend.  Having  known  a  long  time  that 
his  former  master,  I^eontes,  repented  of  all 
his  cruelty,  he  proposed  that  Florizel  and 
Perdita  should  accompany  him  to  Sicily  to 
beg  the  king  to  win  for  them  the  consent  of 
Polixenes  to  their  marriage. 

The  old  shepherd  was  allowed  to  be  of  the 
party,  and  he  took  with  him  the  clothes 
and  jewels  which  had  been  found  with  Per- 
dita, and  also  the  paper  on  which  her  name 
had  been  written. 

On  their  arrival,  Leontes  received  Ca- 
millo with  kindness,  and  welcomed  Prince 
Florizel ;  but  it  was  Perdita  who  engrossed 
all  his  thoughts.  She  seemed  to  remind 
him  of  his  fair  queen  Hermione,  and  he 
broke  out  into  bitter  self -accusation,  saying 
that  he  might  have  had  just  such  another 
lovely  maiden  to  call  him  father,  but  for 
his  own  cruelty. 


The  Winter's  Tale.  255 

The  shepherd,  listening  to  the  king's 
lamentations,  began  to  compare  the  time 
when  he  had  lost  the  royal  infant  with  the 
time  when  Perdita  was  found,  and  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  and  the  daughter 
of  Leontes  were  one  and  the  same  person. 
When  he  felt  assured  of  this  he  told  his 
tale,  showed  the  rich  mantle  which  had  been 
wrapped  round  the  infant,  and  her  remain- 
ing jewels;  and  Leontes  knew  that  his 
daughter  was  brought  back  to  him  once 
more.  Joyful  as  such  tidings  were,  his  sor- 
row at  the  thought  of  Hermione,  who  had 
not  lived  to  behold  her  child  thus  grown 
into  a  fair  maiden,  almost  exceeded  his 
happiness,  so  that  he  kept  exclaiming, 
"Oh,  thy  mother!  thy  mother!" 

Paulina  now  appeared,  begging  Leontes 
to  go  to  her  house  and  look  at  a  statue  she 
possessed  which  greatly  resembled  Her- 
mione. Anxious  to  see  anything  like  his 
much-lamented  w4fe,  the  king  agreed ;  and 
when  the  curtain  was  drawn  back  his  sor- 
row was  stirred  afresh.  At  last  he  said 
that  the  statue  gave  Hermione  a  more  aged, 
wrinkled  look  than  when  he  last  beheld 
her;  but  Paulina  replied,  that  if  so,  it  was 
a  proof  of  the  sculptor's  art,  who  represen- 
ted the  queen  as  she  would  appear  after  the 
sixteen  years  which  had  passed.  She  would 
have  draw^n  the  curtain  again,  but  Leontes 


256 


The  Children's  Portio7i. 


"begged  her  to  wait  a  while,  and  again  he 
appealed  to  those  about  him  to  say  if  it  was 
not  indeed  a  marv^elous  likeness. 

Perdita  had  all  the  while  been  kneeling, 
admiring  in  silence  her  beautiful  mother. 
Paulina  presently  said  that  she  possessed 
the  power  to  make  the  statue  move,  if  such 


"  When  the  curtain  was  drawn  back,  his  sorrow  was 
stirred  afresh.'' 

were  the  king's  pleasure;  and  as  some  soft 
music  was  heard,  the  figure  stirred.  Ah ! 
it  was  no  sculptured  marble,  but  Hermione, 
living  and  breathing,  who  hung  upon  her 
husband  and  her  long-lost  child ! 

It  is  needless  to  tell  that  Paulina's  story 
of  her  royal  mistress'  death  was  an  inven- 
tion to  save  her  life,  and  that  for  all  those 


The  Winter^ s  Tale,  257 

years  she  had  kept  the  queen  secluded,  so 
that  Leontes  should  not  hear  that  she  was 
living  until  Perdita  was  found. 

All  was  happiness ;  but  none  was  greater 
than  that  of  Camillo  and  Paulina,  who  saw 
the  reward  of  their  long  faithfulness.  One 
more  person  was  to  arrive  upon  the  scene; 
even  Polixenes,  who  came  in  search  of 
Florizel,  and  was  thus  in  time  to  bless  the 
union  of  the  young  people,  and  take  a  share 
in  the  general  joy. 


A  GRACIOUS  DEED. 

In  an  humble  room  in  one  of  the  poorest 
streets  in  I^ondon,  Pierre,  a  faithful  French 
boy,  sat  humming  b}^  the  bedside  of  his  sick 
mother.  There  was  no  bread  in  the  closet, 
and  for  the  whole  day  he  had  not  tasted 
food.  Yet  he  sat  humming  to  keep  up  his 
spirits.  Still  at  times  he  thought  of  his 
loneliness  and  hunger,  and  he  could  scarcely 
keep  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  for  he  knew 
that  nothing  would  be  so  grateful  to  his  poor 
mother  as  a  good,  sweet  orange,  and  yet  he 
had  not  a  penny  in  the  world. 

The  little  song  he  was  singing  was  his 
own;  one  he  had  composed,  both  air  and 
words — for  the  child  was  a  genius. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  looking  out, 
he  saw  a  man  putting  up  a  great  bill  with 
yellow  letters  announcing  that  Mme.  Mali- 
bran  would  sing  that  night  in  public. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  go,"  thought  little 
Pierre;  and  then  pausing  a  moment  he 
clasped  his  hands,  his  eyes  lighting  with 
new  hope.  Running  to  the  little  stand,  he 
smoothed  his  3^ellow  curls,  and  taking  from 
a  little  box  some  old  stained  paper,  gave 
one  eager  glance  at  his  mother,  who  slept, 
and  ran  speedily  from  the  house. 

"Who  did  you  say  was  waiting  for  me?" 

258 


A  Gracious  Deed.  259 

said  madame  to  her  servant.  *'I  am  already- 
worn  with  company. ' ' 

"It's  only  a  very  pretty  little  boy  with 
yellow  curls,  who  said  if  he  can  just  see 
you  he  is  sure  you  will  not  be  sorry,  and  he 
will  not  keep  3^ou  a  moment. ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  let  him  come,"  said  the 
beautiful  singer,  with  a  smile.  "I  can 
never  refuse  children." 

Little  Pierre  came  in,  his  hat  under  his 
arm,  and  in  his  hand  a  little  roll  of  paper. 
With  manliness  unusual  for  a  child  he 
walked  straight  to  the  lady  and,  bowing, 
said:  "I  came  to  see  you  because  my 
mother  is  very  sick,  and  we  are  too  poor 
to  get  food  and  medicine.  I  thought,  per- 
haps, that  if  you  would  sing  my  little  song  at 
some  of  your  grand  concerts,  maybe  some  pub- 
lisher would  buy  it  for  a  small  sum  and  so  I 
could  get  food  and  medicine  for  my  mother. '  * 

The  beautiful  woman  arose  from  her  seat. 
Very  tall  and  stately  she  was.  She  took  the  roll 
from  his  hand  and  lightly  hummed  the  air. 

"Did  you  compose  it?"  she  asked; 
"you  a  child!  And  the  words?  Would 
you  like  to  come  to  my  concert  ? ' '  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  yes!"  and  the  boy's  eyes  grew 
bright  with  happiness;  **  but  I  couldn't 
leave  my  mother. ' ' 

"I  will  send  somebody  to  take  care  of 


26o  The  Children'' s  Portion. 

your  mother  for  the  evening,  and  there  is 
a  crown  with  which  you  may  go  and  get 
food  and  medicine.  Here  is  also  one  of  my 
tickets.  Come  to-night;  that  will  admit 
you  to  a  seat  near  me. ' ' 

Almost  beside  himself  with  jo}^,  Pierre 
bought  some  oranges,  and  many  a  little 
luxury  besides,  and  carried  them  home  to 
the  poor  invalid,  telling  her,  not  without 
tears,  of  his  good  fortune. 

When  evening  came  and  Pierre  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  concert  hall  he  felt  that  never 
in  his  life  had  he  been  in  such  a  place. 
The  music,  the  m3^riad  lights,  the  beauty, 
the  flashing  of  diamonds  and  rustling  of 
silk,  bewildered  his  eyes  and  brain. 

At  last  she  came,  and  the  child  sat  with 
his  glance  riveted  on  her  glorious  face. 
Could  he  believe  that  the  grand  lady,  all 
blazing  with  jewels,  and  whom  everybody 
seemed  to  worship,  would  really  sing  his 
little  song? 

Breathlessly  he  waited — the  band,  the 
whole  band,  struck  up  a  plaintive  little 
melody.  He  knew  it,  and  clasped  his  hands 
for  joy.  And  oh,  how  she  sang  it !  It  was 
so  simple,  vSO  mournful.  Man}^  a  bright  eye 
dimmed  with  tears,  and  naught  could  be 
heard  but  the  touching  words  of  that  little 
song. 

Pierre  walked  home  as  if  moving  on  air. 


A  Gracious  Deed.  261 

What  cared  he  for  money  now?  The  great- 
est singer  in  all  Europe  had  sung  his  little 
song,  and  thousands  had  wept  at  his  grief. 

The  next  day  he  w^as  frightened  at  a 
visit  from  Madame  Malibran.  She  laid  her 
hands  on  his  yellow  curls,  and  talking  to 
the  sick  woman  said:  *'Your  little  boy, 
madame,  has  brought  you  a  fortune.  I  was 
offered  this  morning,  by  the  best  publisher 
in  London,  300  pounds  for  his  little  song, 
and  after  he  has  realized  a  certain  amount 
from  the  sale,  little  Pierre,  here,  is  to  share 
the  profits.  Madame,  thank  God  that  your 
son  has  a  gift  from  heaven. ' ' 

The  noble-hearted  singer  and  the  poor 
woman  wept  together.  As  to  Pierre,  al- 
w^ays  mindful  of  Him  who  watches  over  the 
tired  and  tempted,  he  knelt  down  by  his. 
mother's  bedside  and  offered  a  simple  but 
eloquent  prayer,  asking  God's  blessing  on 
the  kind  lady  who  had  deigned  to  notice 
their  affliction. 

The  memory  of  that  prayer  made  the  singer 
more  tender-hearted,  and  she,  who  was  the 
idol  of  England's  nobility,  went  about  doing 
good.  And  in  her  early,  happy  death,  he  who 
stood  beside  her  bed  and  smoothed  her 
pillow  and  lightened  her  last  moments  by 
his  undying  affection,  was  little  Pierre  ot 
former  days,  now  rich,  accomplished,  and 
the  most  talented  composer  of  his  day. 


TOM. 

BY  REV.    C.    H.    MEAD. 

Never  did  any  one  have  a  better  start  in 
life  than  Tom.  Bom  of  Christian  parents, 
he  inherited  from  them  no  bad  defects, 
moral  or  physical.  He  was  built  on  a  liberal 
plan,  having  a  large  head,  large  hands,  large 
feet,  large  body,  and  within  all,  a  heart  big 
with  generosity.  His  face  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  good  nature,  and  his  laugh  was 
musical  and  infectious.  Being  an  only 
child  there  was  no  one  toshare»with  him  the 
lavish  love  of  his  parents.  They  saw  in  him 
nothing  less  than  a  future  President  of  the 
United  States,  and  they  made  every  sacri- 
fice to  fit  him  for  his  coming  position.  He 
was  a  prime  favorite  with  all,  and  being  a 
born  leader,  he  was  ungrudgingly  accorded 
that  position  by  his  playmates  at  school  and 
his  fellows  at  the  university.  He  wrestled 
with  rhetoric,  and  logic,  and  political  econ- 
omy, and  geometr>^,  and  came  off  an  easy 
victor;  he  put  new  life  into  the  dead 
languages,  dug  among  the  Greek  roots  by 
day  and  soared  up  among  the  stars  by  night. 
None  could  outstrip  him  as  a  student,  and 
he  easily  held  his  place  at  the  head  of  his 
class.  The  dullest  scholar  found  in  him  a 
262 


Tom.  263 

friend  and  a  helper,  while  the  brighter  ones 
found  in  his  example,  an  incentive  to  do 
their  best. 

In  athletic  sports,  too,  he  was  excelled 
b}^  none.  He  could  run  faster,  jump  higher, 
lift  a  dumb-bell  easier,  strike  a  ball  harder, 
and  pull  as  strong  an  oar  as  the  best  of 
them.  He  was  the  point  of  the  flying 
wedge  in  the  game  of  foot-ball,  and  woe  be 
to  the  opponent  against  whom  that  point 
struck.  To  sum  it  all  up,  Tom  was  a  men- 
tal and  physical  giant,  as  well  as  a  superb 
specimen  of  what  that  college  could  make 
out  of  a  young  man.  But  unfortunately,  it 
w^as  one  of  those  institutions  that  developed 
the  mental,  trained  the  physical,  and  starved 
the  spiritual,  and  so  it  came  to  pass  ere  his 
college  days  were  ended,  Tom  had  an  enemy, 
and  that  enemy  was  the  bottle. 

The  more  respectable  you  make  sin,  the 
more  dangerous  it  is.  An  old  black  bottle 
in  the  rough  hand  of  the  keeper  of  a  low 
dive,  would  have  no  power  to  cause  a  clean 
3^oung  man  to  swer^'e  from  the  right  course, 
but  he  is  a  hero  ten  times  over,  who  can 
withstand  the  temptation  of  a  wine  glass  in 
the  jeweled  fingers  of  a  beautiful  young 
lady.  Tom's  tempter  came  in  the  latter 
form,  and  she  who  might  have  spurred  him 
on  to  the  highest  goal,  and  w^hispered  in  his 
ear,  *'look  not  thou  upon  the  wine  when  it 


264  The  Child  re  ;i's  Poriion. 

is  red,  when  it  giveth  its  color  in  the  cup, 
when  it  moveth  itself  aright,"  started  him 
down  a  course  which  made  him  learn  from 
a  terrible  experience  that  "at  the  last  it 
biteth  like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an 
adder."  Does  any  one  call  a  glass  of  wine 
a  small  thing?  Read  Tom's  story  and  then 
call  it  small,  if  you  dare !  Whatever  he  did 
was  done  with  his  might,  drinking  not  ex- 
cepted. He  boasted  of  his  power  to  drink 
much  and  keep  sober,  while  he  laughed  at 
the  companions  who  imbibed  far  less  and 
went  to  bed  drunk.  At  first  Tom  was  the 
master  and  the  bottle  his  slave,  but  in  three 
years'  time  they  changed  places.  When  too 
late,  his  parents  discovered  that  the  college 
had  sent  back  to  them  a  ripe  scholar,  a 
trained  athlete  and  a  drunkard.  The  mother 
tried  to  save  her  son,  but  failing  in  every 
effort,  her  heart  broke  and  she  died  with 
Tom's  name  on  her  lips.  The  father, 
weighed  down  under  the  dead  sorrow  and 
the  living  trouble,  vainly  strove  to  rescue 
his  son,. and  was  found  one  night  in  the 
attitude  of  prayer,  kneeling  by  the  side  of 
the  bed  where  his  wife's  broken  heart  a  few 
months  before  had  ceased  to  beat.  He  died 
praying  for  his  boy ! 

One  evening  as  the  sun  was  setting,  a 
man  stood  leaning  against  the  fence  along 
one  of  the  vStreets  of  a  certain  city.     His 


Tom.  265 

clothes  were  ragged,  his  hands  and  face 
unwashed,  his  hair  uncombed  and  his  eyes 
bleared;  he  looked  more  like  a  wild  beast 
hunted  and  hungry,  than  a  human  being. 
It  was  Tom.  The  boys  gathered  about  him, 
and  made  him  the  object  of  their  fun  and 
ridicule.  At  first  he  seemed  not  to  notice 
them,  but  suddenly  he  cried  out:  ** Cease 
your  laughter  until  you  know  what  you  are 
laughing  at.  Let  me  talk  to  my  master 
while  you  listen." 

He  pulled  a  bottle  from  his  pocket,  held 
it  up,  and  looking  at  it  with  deep  hatred 
flashing  from  his  reddened  eyes,  he  said : 

* '  I  was  once  your  master ;  now  I  am  your 
slave.  In  my  strength  you  deceived  me; 
in  m.y  weakness  you  mock  me.  You  have 
burned  my  brain,  blistered  my  body,  blasted 
my  hopes,  bitten  my  soul  and  broken  my 
will.  You  have  taken  ni}^  money,  destroyed 
my  home,  stolen  my  good  name,  and  robbed 
me  of  every  friend  I  ever  had.  You  killed 
my  mother,  slew  my  father,  sent  me  out 
into  the  world  a  worthless  vagabond,  until 
I  find  myself  a  son  without  parents,  a  man 
without  friends,  a  wanderer  without  a  home, 
a  human  being  without  sympathy,  and  a 
pauper  without  bread.  Deceiver,  mocker, 
robber,  murderer — I  hate  you!  Oh,  for  one 
hour  of  my  old-time  strength,  that  I 
might    slay    you!      Oh,     for    one    friend 


266  The  Childreii's  Portion. 

and  some  power  to  free  me  from  this 
slavery ! ' ' 

The  laugh  had  ceased  and  the  boys  stood 
gazing  on  him  with  awe.  A  young  lady 
and  gentleman  had  joined  the  company  just 
as  Tom  began  this  terrible  arraignment  of 
his  master,  and  as  he  ceased,  the  young  lady 
stepped  up  to  him  and  earnestly  said :  '  *  You 
have  one  friend  and  there  is  one  power  that 
can  break  your  chains  and  set  you  free, ' ' 

Tom  gazed  at  her  a  moment  and  then 
said: 

''Who  is  my  friend?" 

"The  King  is  your  friend, ' '  she  answered. 

"And  pray,  who  are  you?"  said  Tom. 

"One  of  the  King's  Daughters,"  was  the 
reply  "and  *In  His  Name'  I  tell  you  He  has 
power  to  set  you  free. ' ' 

"Free,  free  did  you  say?  But,  you  mock 
me.  A  girl  with  as  white  a  hand  and  as 
fair  a  face  as  yours,  delivered  me  to  my 
master. ' ' 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  the  King  whose 
daughter  am  I,  even  JCvSUS  Christ  the  Lord, 
let  the  hand  of  another  girl  lead  you  to  Him 
who  came  to  break  the  chains  of  the  captive 
and  set  the  prisoner  free. ' ' 

Tom  looked  at  the  earnest  face  of  the 
pleading  girl,  hesitated  awhile,  as  his  lip 
quivered  and  the  big  tears  filled  his  eyes, 
and  then  suddenly  lifting  the  bottle  high 


Tom,  267 

above  his  head,  he  dashed  it  down  on  the 
pavement,  and  as  it  broke  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  he  said : 

**I'll  trust  you,  I'll  trust  you,  lead  me  to 
the  King!" 

And  lead  him  she  did,  as  always  a  King's 
Daughter  will  lead  one  who  sorely  needs 
help.  His  chains  were  broken,  and  at 
twenty-nine  years  of  age  Tom  began  life 
over  again.  He  is  not  the  man  he  might 
have  been,  but  no  one  doubts  his  loyalty 
to  the  King.  His  place  in  the  prayer  cir- 
cle is  never  vacant,  and  you  can  always  find 
him  in  the  ranks  of  those  whose  sworn  pur- 
pose it  is  to  slay  Tom's  old  master.  King; 
Alcohol! 


STEVEN  LAWRENCE,  AMERICAN. 

BY   BARBARA  YECHTON. 

Stevie's  papa  usually  wrote  his  name  in 
the  hotel  registers  as  ** Edward  H.  Law- 
rence, New  York  City,  U.  S.  A.,"  but 
Stevie  always  entered  his — and  he  wouldn't 
have  missed  doing  it  for  anything — as 
**Steven  Lawrence,  American." 

When  Kate  and  Eva  teased  him  about  it, 
he  would  say:  **Why,  anybody  could  come 
from  New  York — an  Englishman  or  a  Ger- 
man or  a  Frenchman — without  being  born 
there,  don't  3'ou  see?  but  I'm  a  real  out- 
and-out  American,  born  there,  and  a  cit- 
izen and  everything,  and  I  just  want  all 
these  foreigners  to  know  it,  'cause  I  think 
America's  the  greatest  country  in  the 
world."  Then  the  little  boy  would 
straighten  his  slender  figure  and  toss  back 
his  curly  hair  with  a  great  air  of  pride, 
which  highly  amused  his  two  sisters.  But 
their  teasing  and  laughter  did  not  trouble 
Stevie  in  the  least.  "Laugh  all  you  like 
— I  don't  care,"  he  retorted,  one  day. 
''^It's  my  way,  and  I  like  it, ' '  which  amused 
the  little  girls  all  the  more,  for,  as  Eva 
said,  "Everybody  knew  Stevie  liked  his 
«own  way,  only  he  never  had  owned  up  to 
it  before. ' ' 

268 


Steven  Lawrence^  American,      269 

There  was  something,  however,  that  did 
trouble  the  little  boy  a  good  deal:  though 
he  was  born  in  New  York  City,  he  had  no 
recollection  of  it  or  any  other  place  in 
America,  as  his  mamma's  health  had  failed, 
and  the  whole  family  had  gone  to  Europe 
for  her  benefit,  when  Stevie  was  little  more 
than  a  year  old.  They  had  traveled  about 
a  good  deal  in  the  eight  years  since  then, 
and  Stevie  had  lived  in  some  famous  and 
beautiful  old  cities;  but  in  his  estimation 
no  place  was  equal  to  his  beloved  America, 
of  which  Mehitabel  Higginson  had  told 
him  so  much,  and  to  which  he  longed  to 
get  back.  I  fancy  that  most  American  boys 
and  girls  would  have  enjoyed  being  where 
Stevie  was  at  this  time,  for  he  and  his  papa 
and  mamma,  and  Kate  and  Eva,  and  Me- 
hitabel Higginson,  w^ere  living  in  a  large 
and  quite  grand-looking  house  in  Venice. 
The  entrance  hall  and  the  wide  staircase 
leading  to  the  next  story  were  very  impos- 
ing, the  rooms  were  large,  and  the  walls 
and  high  ceilings  covered  with  elaborate 
carvings  and  frescoes;  and  when  Stevie 
looked  out  of  the  windows  or  the  front  door 
lo !  instead  of  an  ordinary  street  with  paved 
sidewalks,  there  were  the  blue  shining 
waters  of  the  lagoon,  and  quaint-shaped 
gondolas  floating  at  the  door-step  or  glid- 
ing swiftly  and  gracefully  by. 


270  The  Children' s  Portion. 

The  children  thought  it  great  fun  to  go 
sight-seeing  in  a  gondola :  they  visited  the 
beautiful  old  Cathedral  of  St.  Mark,  and 
admired  the  famous  bronze  horses  which 
surmount  Sansovino's  exquisitely  carved 
gates,  sailed  up  and  down  the  double  curv'ed 
Grand  Canal,  walked  through  the  Ducal 
Palace  and  across  the  narrow,  ill-lighted 
Bridge  of  Sighs — over  which  so  many  un- 
fortunate prisoners  had  passed  never  to 
return — and  peeped  into  the  dark,  dismal 
prison  on  the  other  side  of  the  canal. 

It  was  all  very  novel  and  interesting,  but 
Stevie  told  Mehitabel,  in  confidence,  that 
he  would  rather,  any  day,  listen  to  her 
reminiscences  of  her  long-ago  school  days  in 
her  little  New  England  village  home,  or, 
better  still,  to  her  stories  of  George  Wash- 
ington, and  the  other  great  vSpirits  of  the 
Revolutionary  period,  and  of  Abraham  I^in- 
coln  and  the  men  of  his  time.  Stevie 
never  tired  of  these  stories.  He  knew 
Mehitabel's  leisure  hour,  and  curling  him- 
self up  among  the  cushions  on  the  settee 
beside  her  tea  table,  he  would  say,  with 
his  most  engaging  smile:  **Now's  just  the 
time  for  a  story,  Hitty;  don't  you  think 
so?  And  please  begin  right  away,  won't 
you,  'cause,  you  know,  I'll  have  to  be 
going  to  bed  pretty  soon." 

He   knew  most  of   the  stories  by  heart, 


Steven  Lawrence^  American.      271 

corrected  Miss  Higginson  if  she  left  out  or 
added  anything  in  the  teMing,  and  always 
joined  in  when  she  ended  the  entertain- 
ment with  her  two  stock  pieces — "Barbara 
Freitchie"  and  "Paul  Revere 's  Ride," 
which  were  great  favorites  with  him. 
"Oh,  how  I  would  like  to  be  a  hero!"  he 
said  with  a  sigh,  one  afternoon,  just  after 
they  had  finished  reciting  "Paul  Revere' s 
Ride"  in  fine  style.  Presently  he  added, 
thoughtfully:  "Do  you  think,  Hitty,  that 
any  one  could  be  a  hero  and  not  know  it? 
I  suppose  Washington  and  Paul  Revere  and 
all  those  others  just  knew  every  time  they 
did  anything  brave. ' ' 

Hitty  w^ore  her  hair  in  short  gray  curls 
on  each  side  of  her  rather  severe-looking 
face,  and  now  they  bobbed  up  and  down  as 
she  nodded  her  head  emphaticall}^  "Of 
course  they  did,"  she  answered,  with  con- 
viction. "You  see  my  grandfather  fought 
in  the  Revolution,  so  I  ought  to  know. 
But, ' '  with  an  entire  change  of  conversa- 
tion, "bravery  isn't  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  for  a  little  boy  to  think  of.  He 
should  try  to  be  nice  and  polite  to  every^- 
body;  obedient  to  his  mamma  and  gentle 
to  his  sisters;  he  shouldn't  love  to  have  his. 
own  way  and  go  ordering  people  about.  I 
don't  think,"  with  sudden  assurance,, 
"you'd  have  found  Washington  or  Paul 
Revere  or  Lincoln  behaving  that  wa}^" 


272  The  Children's  Portion. 

"Pooh!  that's  all  you  know  about  it," 
cried  Stevie,  ungratefully,  slipping  down 
from  his  nest  among  the  cushions ;  he  did 
not  relish  the  personal  tone  the  conversa- 
tion had  taken.  "Didn't  Washington 
order  his  troops  about?  And  anyway, 
Kate's  just  as  'ordering'  as  I  am,  and  j^ou 
never  speak  to  her  about  it. ' '  Then,  before 
the  old  housekeeper  could  answer,  he  ran 
out  of  the  room. 

You  see  that  was  Stevie' s  great  fault;  he 
was  a  dear,  warm-hearted  little  fellow,  but 
he  did  love  to  have  his  own  way,  and  often 
this  made  him  very  rude  and  impatient — 
what  they  called  "ordering" — to  his  sis- 
ters, and  Hitty  and  the  servants,  and  even 
disobedient  to  his  mamma. 

Stevie' s  mamma  was  very  much  troubled 
about  this,  for  she  dearly  loved  her  little 
:Son,  and  she  saw  plainly  that  as  the  days 
went  on  instead  of  Stevie' s  getting  the 
tipper  hand  of  his  fault,  his  fault  was  get- 
ting the  upper  hand  of  him.  So  one  day 
she  and  papa  had  a  long,  serious  talk  about 
Stevie,  and  then  papa  and  Stevie  had  a 
long,  serious  talk  about  the  fault.  I  shall 
not  tell  all  that  passed  between  them,  for 
papa  had  to  do  some  plain  speaking  that 
hurt  Stevie 's  feelings  very  much,  and  his 
little  pocket-handkerchief  was  quite  damp 
long  before  the  interview  was  over. 


Steven  Lawrence^  American.      273 

Papa  so  seldom  found  fault  that  what  he 
said  now  made  a  great  impression  on  the 
little  boy.  "I  didn't  know  I  was  so  hor- 
rid, papa,"  he  said,  earnestly;  "I  really 
don't  mean  to  be,  but  you  see  people  are  so 
trying  sometimes,  and  then  it  seems  as  if  I 
just  have  to  say  things.  You  don't  know 
how  hard  it  is  to  keep  from  saying  them.'^ 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence, 
with  a  nod  of  his  head;  "but  you  are  get- 
ting to  be  a  big  boy  now,  Stevie,  and  if  3'ou 
expect  to  be  a  soldier  one  of  these  daj^s — 
as  you  say  you  do — you  must  begin  to  con- 
trol yourself  now,  or  you'll  never  be  able  tO' 
control  your  men  by  and  hy.  And  besides, 
you  are  bringing  discredit  on  your  beloved 
country  by  such  behavior. ' ' 

Stevie  looked  up  with  w4de-open,  aston- 
ished eyes.     "Why,  papa!"  he  said. 

"I  heard  you  tell  Guiseppi  the  other 
da3^,"  w^ent  on  his  papa,  "that  all  Amer- 
icans were  nice.  Do  you  expect  him  to 
believe  that,  when  you,  the  only  little 
American  boy  he  knows,  speak  so  rudely 
to  him,  and  he  hears  you  ordering  your 
sisters  about  as  you  do?" 

Stevie  hung  his  head  without  a  word, 
but  his  cheeks  got  very  red. 

"You  know,  Stevie,"  said  Mr.  Law- 
rence, "great  honors  always  bring  great 
responsibilities  with    them.     You    are     a 


274  ^^^^  Children's  Portion^ 

'Christian  and  an  American — two  great  hon- 
ors; and  you  mustn't  shirk  the  responsi- 
bility to  be  courteous  and  noble  and  kind, 
which  they  entail.  Even  our  dear  Lord 
Christ  pleased  not  Himself,  you  know; 
don't  you  suppose  it  grieves  Him  to  see  His 
little  follower  flying  into  rages  because  he 
can't  have  his  own  way?  And  can  you 
possibly  imagine  Washington  or  Lincoln 
ordering  people  about  as  you  like  to 
do?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then 
Stevie  straightened  himself  up  and  poked 
his  hands  deep  down  in  his  pockets. 
"Papa,"  he  said,  tossing  back  his  yellow 
curls,  a  look  of  determination  on  his  little 
fair  face,  "I'll  not  shirk  my  'sponsibilities. 
I'm  just  going  to  \.ry  with  all  my  might  to 
be  a  better  boy. ' ' 

"Good  for  you,  Stevie!"  cried  papa, 
kissing  him  warmly.  "I  know  mamma'll 
be  glad,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  be  a  much 
pleasanter  boy  to  live  with.  But  you  must 
ask  God  to  help  you,  or  you'll  never  suc- 
ceed, son;  and  besides,  3^ou've  got  to  keep 
a  tight  watch  on  ^^ourself  all  the  time,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  agreed  Stevie,  with 
a  little  sigh,  "'cause  feelings  are  such  hard 
things  to  manage;  and,  papa,  please  don't 
tell    Kate    and    Eva,    or     Hitty."     Papa 


Steven  ILawrence^  American.      275 

nodded,  and  then  they  went  to  tell  mamma 
the  result  of  the  talk. 

Stevie  did  ** try  with  all  his  might"  for 
the  next  few  days,  and  with  such  good 
results  as  to  astonish  all  but  his  papa  and 
mamma,  who,  as  you  know,  were  in  the 
secret.  Eva  confided  to  Kate  that  she 
thought  Stevie  was  certainly  like  **the 
little  girl  with  the  curl, ' '  for  if  when  he 
was  ** bad  he  was  horrid,"  "when  he  was 
good  he  was  very,  very  good;"  and  Me- 
hitabel  watched  him  closely,  and  hoped  "he 
wasn't  sickening  for  measles  or  Italian 
fever. ' ' 

How  long  this  unusual  state  of  affairs 
would  have  lasted  under  usual  circum- 
stances is  uncertain ;  but  about  a  week  after 
Stevie 's  talk  with  his  papa,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lawrence  were  called  suddenly  to  Naples 
on  urgent  business,  and  the  children  were 
left  in  Venice  in  the  housekeeper's  care. 
Mamma  impressed  upon  her  little  son  and 
daughters  that  they  must  be  very  good  chil- 
dren and  obey  Mehitable  just  as  they  would 
her;  and  when  they  were  going,  papa  said 
to  Stevie:  "Son,  I  want  you  to  look  after 
the  girls  and  Mehitabel,  axid  take  care  of 
them  while  I  am  away.  If  anj^thing  hap- 
pens, try  to  act  as  you  think  I  would  if  I 
were  here. ' ' 

"All  right,  I'll  take  good  care  of  'em," 


276  The  Childreri's  Portion. 

Stevie  answered,  feeling  very  proud  to 
have  papa  say  this  before  every  bod}-,  and 
winked  hard  to  prevent  the  tears,  that 
would  come,  .^rom  falling.  Then,  as  the  gon- 
dola glided  from  the  door,  papa  leaned  over 
the  side  and  waved  his  hand.  **' Don't  forget 
the  responsibilities,  Steve,"  he  called  out. 

"I  w^on't  forget — sure,"  returned  Stevie, 
waving  back;  but  when  Kate  asked  what 
papa  meant,  he  answered:  ''It's  just  some- 
thing between  papa  and  me — nothing  'bout 
you,  with  such  a  mysterious  air  that  of 
course  Kate  immediately  suspected  a  secret 
and  entreated  to  be  told.  This  Stevie  flatly 
refused  to  do,  and  they  were  on  the  verge 
of  a  quarrel  when  Mehitabel's  voice  w^as 
heard  calling  them  to  come  help  her  choose 
a  dessert  for  their  five-o'clock  dinner. 

Stevie  found  the  next  few  days  what  he 
called  "very  trying."  You  see,  by  virtue 
of  what  his  papa  had  said  he  considered 
himself  the  head  of  the  family,  and  his  feel- 
ings were  continually  ruffled  by  Mehitabel's 
decided  way  of  settling  things  without 
regard  to  his  opinion.  The  mornings  were 
the  hardest  of  all,  when,  in  their  mother's 
absence,  the  children  recited  their  lessons 
to  Miss  Higginson.  Mehitabel  had  her 
own  ideas  about  the  law  and  order  that 
should  be  maintained,  and  Stevie' s  indig- 
nant protests  were  quite  wasted  on    her. 


Steven  Lawrence^  American,      277 

'*You  may  do  as  you  please  when  your 
pa  and  ma  are  home" — she  said  very  decid- 
edly one  morning,  when  Kate  and  Stevie 
told  her  that  their  mamma  never  expected 
them  to  stand  through  all  the  lessons  nor 
to  repeat  every  word  as  it  was  in  the  book 
— *'but  when  I'm  head  of  the  family  you've 
got  to  do  things  my  way,  and  I  w^ant  every 
word  of  that  lesson. " 

** You' re  just  as  cross  as  you  can  be," 
fumed  Kate,  flouncing  herself  into  a  chair. 

**And  anyway  you're  not  the  head  of  the 
family  one  bit,"  commenced  Stevie, 
w^armly  tossing  back  his  curls  and  getting 
very  red  in  the  face.      ''Papa  said  I — " 

*'0h,  here's  a  gondola  stopped  at  our 
door,"  broke  in  Eva,  who,  taking  advan- 
tage of  Miss  Higginson's  attention  being 
occupied  elsewhere,  was  looking  out  of  the 
window.  ** There's  a  boy  in  it  lying  down 
— a  big  boy.  Oh,  a  man's  just  got  out 
and — yes,  they're  bringing  the  boy  in 
here! 

^'Sakes  alive !"  cried  Mehitabel,  dropping 
Stevie' s  book  on  the  floor  and  starting  for 
the  door.  ''Can  it  possibly  be  Mr.  Joseph 
and  Dave?" 

"Uncle  Joe  and  Dave!"  "Hurrah!" 
exclaimed  Kate  and  Stevie  in  the  same 
breath ;  and  Eva  having  scrambled  down 
from    the    window,     the     three     children 


278  The  ChildreiCs  Portion. 

collected  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  watch, 
with  breathless  interest,  the  procession 
which  came  slowly  up. 

The  tall  man  on  the  right  was  their 
Uncle  Joe  Lawrence — Kate  and  Eva  and 
Stevie  remembered  him  at  once,  for  he  had 
visited  their  parents  several  times  since 
they  had  been  in  Europe;  and  the  bright- 
eyed,  pale-faced  boy  who  lay  huddled  up  in 
the  chair  which  he  and  Guiseppi  carried 
between  them  must  be  their  Cousin  Dave, 
of  whom  they  had  heard  so  much.  Poor 
Dave !  he  had  fallen  from  a  tree  last  sum- 
mer, and  struck  his  back,  and  the  concus- 
sion had  caused  paralysis  of  the  lower  part 
of  the  spine,  so  that  he  could  not  walk  a 
step,  and  might  not  for  years,  though  the 
doctors  gave  hope  that  he  would  eventually 
recover  ttie  use  of  his  legs.  The  children 
gazed  at  him  with  the  deepest  interest  and 
sympathy,  and  they  were  perfectly  aston- 
ished when,  as  the  chair  passed  them,  Dave 
turned  his  head,  and,  in  answer  to  their 
smiling  greetings,  deliberately  made  a 
frightful  face  at  them ! 

"Isn't  he  the  rudest!"  gasped  Eva,  as 
the  procession — Miss  Higginson  bringing 
up  the  rear — disappeared  behind  the  doors 
of  the  guest  room;  while  Kate  and  Stevie 
were,  for  once  in  their  lives,  too  amazed  to 
be  able  to  express  their  feelings. 


Ste7'en  Laivrence^  Afuericcui.      279 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time  to  the 
children,  Mehitabel  rejoined  them.  *'I 
am  in  a  pucker,"  she  said,  sinking  into  a 
chair.  Her  curls  were  disarranged,  and 
her  spectacles  were  pushed  up  on  her  fore- 
head; she  looked  w^orried.  "And  there 
isn't  a  creature  to  turn  to  for  advice;  that 
Italian  in  the  kitchen  doesn't  speak  a 
blessed  w^ord  of  English,  and  Guiseppi's 
not  much  better.  He  keeps  saying,  'Si 
signorina,'  and  wagging  his  head  like  a 
Chinese  mandarin,  until  he  fairly  makes 
me  dizzy,  and  I  know^  all  the  time  he 
doesn't  understand  half  I'm  sa^'ing. " 

Miss  Higginson  paused  to  take  breath, 
then,  feeling  the  positive  necessity'  of 
unburdening  herself  further,  continued 
her  tale  of  woe:  "Here's  3'our  Uncle 
Joseph  obliged  to  go  right  on  to  Paris 
within  the  hour,  and  here's  Dave  to  remain 
here  till  his  pa  returns,  w^hich  mayn't  be 
for  weeks.  And  he  requires  constant  care, 
mansage  (she  meant  massage)  treatment 
antl  everything — and  just  as  domineering 
and  imperdent;  Stevie's  bad  enough,  but 
Dave  goes  ahead  of  him.  And,  to  make 
matters  worse,  here  comes  a  letter  from 
your  pa  saying  he  and  your  ma  have  met 
with  old  friends  at  Naples,  and  not  to 
expect  'em  home  until  we  see  them.  Any- 
way, I'd  made  up  my  mind  not  to  shorten 


28o  The  Children's  Portion. 

their  holiday,  'less  it  was  a  matter  of  life 
and  death. 

*  *  Now,  what  I  want  to  know  is  this :  who  is 
going  to  wait  on  that  sick  bo}^  from  morning 
to  night?  And  that's  what  he'll  have  to 
have  for  he  can't  stir  ofF  his  couch,  can't 
even  sit  up,  and  wanting  something  ever}' 
five  minutes.  I'm  sure  I  can't  keep  the 
house,  and  see  to  the  servants,  and  take 
care  of  you  children,  and  besides  wait  on 
that  exacting  young  one.  'Tain't  in  human 
nature  to  do  it — anyway,  'tain't  in  me.  And 
Dave's  temper's  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
thing;  he  won't  have  Guiseppi  or  any 
other  Italian  I  could  get,  and  he's  just  worn 
out  the  patience  of  his  French  vally  till  he 
got  disgusted  and  wouldn't  put  up  with  it 
any  longer  for  love  nor  money.  His 
father's  got  to  go,  and  who  is  to  take  care 
of  that  boy?" 

Mehitabel's  voice  actuall}^  quivered.  The 
children  had  never  seen  her  so  moved ;  the 
differences  of  the  morning  were  all  forgotten, 
and  they  crowded  about  her,  their  little  faces 
full  of  loving  sympathy.  *'I  wish  I  could 
help  you,  Hitty,"  said  Kate,  patting  the 
old  housekeeper's  hand.  "Is  man  sage 
treatment  a  kind  of  medicine  'cause  if  it  is 
I  might  give  it  to  Dave — you  know  I  drop 
mamma's  medicine  for  her  sometimes." 

"No,  child,  mansage  is  a  certain  waj-  of 


Steven  Lazvrence^  American.      281 

rubbing  the  body,  and  it  needs  more 
strength  and  skill  than  you've  got.  But 
that  I  can  manage,  I  think;  Guiseppi 
knows  a  man  that  we  can  get  to  come  and 
mansage  Dave  every  morning.  And  I  could 
sleep  in  the  room  next  to  him,  and  look 
after  him  during  the  night;  but  it's  some 
one  to  be  with  him  in  the  day  that  I  want 
most. ' ' 

Stevie  had  listened  to  Mehitabel's  story 
with  a  very  thoughtful  expression  on  his 
face ;  now  he  said  suddenly,  and  very  per- 
suasively: "I  could  take  care  of  Dave 
through  the  day,  Hitty — I  wish  you'd  let 
me." 

**You!"  cried  Miss  Higginson,  in  sur- 
prise. **Why,  you  wouldn't  be  in  that 
room  five  minutes  before  you  tw^o  would  be 
squabbling. ' ' 

"No,  we  w^ouldn't;  I'm  vSure  we 
wouldn't,"  persisted  the  little  boy.  "Just 
3^ou  try  me. ' ' 

"But,  Stevie,  you'd  get  very  tired  being 
shut  up  in  the  room  with  that  ill-tempered 
bo3',  all  day  long — I  know  him  of  old — 
he'd  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.  You'd 
have  no  gondola  rides,  no  fun  with  3^our 
sisters,  no  play  time  at  all,  and  no  thanks 
for  your  pains  either.  And  I'm  not  sure 
your  pa'd  like  to  have  3'ou  do  it." 

"I  don't  mind  one  bit  about  the  fun  and 


282  TJie  CJiil droits  Portion. 

all  that,"  said  Stevie,  decidedly;  ''and 
indeed,  Hitty,  I  don't  think  papa'd  object. 
You  see,  he  told  me  the  last  thing,  if  any- 
thing happened  while  he  was  away  I  was 
to  act  just  as  he  would  do  if  he  were  here ; 
now,  3'ou  know,  if  he  were  here  he'd  just 
take  care  of  Dave,  himself — wouldn't  he? 
Well,  then,  as  he  isn't  here,  1  ought  to  do 
it — see?     And  really  I'd  like  to." 

*  'Why  not  let  him  try  it  anyhow,  Hitty  ?" 
pleaded  the  little  girls.  And  as  she  really 
saw  no  other  wa}'  out  of  the  difhcult}^  Me- 
hitable  reluctantly  consented,  with  the  pro- 
viso that  she  should  sit  with  Dave  for  an 
hour  every  afternoon  while  Stevie  went  for 
a  gondola  vSail.  Finally  matters  were  ar- 
ranged, and  after  a  very  short  visit  Mr. 
Joseph  Lawrence  started  for  Paris,  leaving 
Dave  in  Venice,  and  the  children  went  in 
to  make  their  cousin's  acquaintance. 

What  Mehitabel  said  was  certainl}^  true 
— Dave  was  a  very  trying  boy.  Though 
possessing  naturally  some  good  qualities, 
he  had  been  so  humored  and  ir.dulged  that 
his  own  will  had  become  iiis  law ;  he  loved 
to  tease,  and  hated  to  be  thwarted  in  the 
slightest  degree,  and  this  made  him  often 
very  exacting  and  tyrannical.  MivSS  Hig- 
ginson  called  him  a  "most  exasperating 
boy,"  and  she  wasn't  far  wrong.  He 
teased   Kate  and  Eva  so   nuich   that   they 


Steven  Lawrence^  Ajiiericau.      28 


hated  to  go  into  his  room,  or  even  in  the 
gondola  when  he  took, now  and  then,  an  air- 
ing. But,  to  everybod3''s  surprise,  he  and 
Stevie  got  on  better  than  was  expected. 
Part  of  the  secret  of  this  lay  in  the  fact 
that  Dave  had  lived  in  America  all  his  life 
— had  just  come  from  there,  and  was  able 
to  give  Stevie  long  and  glowing  accounts 
of  that  country  and  everything  in  it — as 
seen  from  the  other  boy's  standpoint. 
Stevie's  rapt  attention  and  implicit  faith 
in  him  flattered  Dave,  and  beside,  though 
he  wouldn't  have  acknowledged  it  for  the 
world,  he  found  the  little  fellow's  willing 
ministrations  very  much  pleasanter  than 
those  of  the  French  valet,  whose  patience 
he  had  soon  exhausted.  And  Stevie  felt  so 
sorry  for  the  boy  who  had  dearly  loved  to 
run  and  leap  and  climb,  and  who  now  lay 
so  helpless  that  he  could  not  even  sit  up  for 
five  minutes.  Dave's  heart  was  very  sore 
over  it  sometimes — once  or  twice  he  had 
let  Stevie  see  it;  and  then  he  had  no  dear 
loving  mother  as  Stevie  had,  and  his  papa 
had  never  talked  to  him  as  Stevie's  papa 
did  to  his  little  boy.  So  Stevie  tried  with 
all  the  strength  of  his  brave,  tender  little 
heart  to  be  patient  with  his  cousin. 

But,  as  Mehitabel  w^ould  say,  * 'human 
nature  is  human  nature;"  they  both  had 
quick  tempers  and  strong  wills;  and  for  all 


284  The  Child rcji^s  Portio7i. 

Stevie's  good  intentions,  many  a  lively- 
quarrel  took  place  in  the  guest  room,  of 
which  the}'  both  fancied  the  old  house- 
keeper knew  nothing.  She  had  threatened 
that  if  Dave  ''abused"  Stevie  she  would 
separate  the  boys  at  once,  even  if  she  had 
to  mount  guard  over  the  invalid  herself; 
so  with  Spartan-like  fortitude  both  kept 
their  grievances  to  themselves — Dave  be- 
cause he  disliked  and  was  a  little  afraid  of 
Miss  Higginson,  w^hom  he  had  nicknamed 
the  "dragon, "  and  Stevie  because  he  had 
really  grown  very  fond  of  Dave,  and  knew 
how  utterly  dependent  he  was  on  him. 
But  one  day  Stevie  completely  lost  his 
temper  and  got  so  angry  that  he  declared 
to  himself  he'd  **just  give  up  the  whole 
thing. ' ' 

Stevie  had  felt  a  little  cross  himself  that 
morning,  and  Dave  had  been  unbearable; 
the  consequence  was  the  most  serious  quar- 
rel they  had  ever  had.  In  a  fit  of  violent 
rage  Dave  threw  ever3^thing  he  could  lay 
hands  on  at  Stevie — books,  cushions,  and 
last  a  pretty  paper-weight.  The  books  and 
cushions  Stevie  dodged,  but  the  paper- 
w-eight  hit  him  on  the  shin,  a  vsharp  enough 
blow  to  bring  tears  to  his  eyes  and  the 
angry  blood  to  his  cheeks.  Catching  up  a 
cushion  that  lay  near,  he  sent  it  whizzing 
at  Dave,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 


Sii'i'oi  Laivrcnce^  American.      285 

it  hit  his  cousin  full  in  the  face;  then,  before 
Dave  could  retaliate,  he  slipped  into  the  hall 
and  slammed  the  door  of  the  guest  room. 

Out  in  the  hall  he  almost  danced  with 
rage.  ''I'll  tell  Hitty,"  he  stormed;  "I 
won't  wait  on  him  and  do  things  for  him 
any  longer.  He's  the  worst-tempered  boy 
in  the  whole  world.  I  just  won't  have 
another  thing  to  do  wdth  him!  I'll  go  and 
tell  her  so. ' ' 

Before  he  got  half  way  to  Mehitabel, 
however,  he  changed  his  mind,  and  stealing 
softly  back,  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairs, 
just  outside  Dave's  room,  to  wait  till  Dave 
should  call  him,  to  make  up,  as  had  hap- 
pened more  than  once  before.  Stevie 
determined  he  wouldn't  go  in  of  his  own 
accord — he  said  Dave  had  been  "too  con- 
temptibly mean. "  So  he  sat  there  with  a 
ver}^  obstinate  look  on  his  little  face,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin  in  his 
palms,  staring  at  the  patch  of  blue  sky 
which  was  visible  through  the  hall  window 
nearest  him. 

But  somehow,  after  a  while  Stevie' s  an- 
ger began  to  cool,  and  he  began  to  feel 
sorry  for  Dave,  and  to  wonder  if  the  cush- 
ion had  hurt  him — a  corner  of  it  might 
have  struck  his  eye!  The  paper-weight 
had  hurt  quite  a  good  deal ;  but  then  he 
could  get  out  of  the  way  of  such   things, 


286  The  Child  re  )i's  Portion. 

while  Dave  couldn't  dodge,  he  had  to  lie 
there  and  take  what  Stevie  threw.  Poor 
Dave!  and  he  might  lie  in  that  helpless 
way  for  years  yet — the  doctors  had  said  per- 
haps by  the  time  he  was  twent5'-one  he 
might  be  able  to  walk.  What  a  long  time 
to  have  to  wait!  Poor  Dave!  Stevie  won- 
dered if  he  would  behave  better  than  Dave 
if  he  were  twelve  years  old  and  as  helpless 
as  his  cousin.  Mehitabel  said  they  were 
both  fond  of  their  own  way  and  loved  to 
order  people  about;  he  guessed  all  boys 
loved  their  own  way,  whether  they  were 
nine  or  twelve  3^ears  old. 

And  then  suddenly  there  came  to  Stevie 
the  remembrance  of  a  picture  that  hung  in 
his  mamma's  room.  It  was  a  print  of  a 
famous  painting,  and  it  represented  a  Boy 
of  twelve,  with  a  bright,  eager,  beautiful 
face,  vStanding  among  grave,  dark-browed, 
white-robed  men.  Mamma  and  Stevie  had 
often  talked  about  the  Boy  there  pictured, 
and  Stevie  knew  that  He  had  not  loved  His 
own  way,  for  He  "pleased  not  Himself." 
He  wouldn't  have  quarreled  with  Dave! 
He  had  been  a  real  Boy,  too;  He  knew  just 
what  other  boys  had  to  go  through,  all  their 
trials  and  temptations,  and  mannna  had  said 
over  and  over  that  she  knew  He  just  loved 
to  help  those  other  boys  to  be  good  and 
unselfish  and  patient. 


Steven  Lawi-ence^  American.     287 

Then  He  must  know  all  about  poor  Dave's 
liaving  to  lie  helpless  all  the  time.  A  wist- 
ful look  came  into  Stevie's  eyes.  Oh,  if 
Jesus  were  only  on  earth  now,  he  thought, 
how  quickly  they  would  all  take  Dave  to 
Him  to  be  healed!  Or  perhaps  He  would 
come  to  the  sick  boy,  as  He  did  to  some  of 
those  others  in  the  Bible.  Stevie  pictured 
to  himself  the  tall,  gracious  figure,  clad  in 
long,  trailing  robes,  the  holy  face,  the  tender 
eyes.  He  would  lay  His  hand  on  Dave  and 
say  :  *  'Son" — Stevie  thought  that  was  vsuch 
a  beautiful  word — "Son,  rise  up  and  walk. ' ' 
And  immediately  Dave  would  spring  to  his 
feet,  well  and  strong.  And  then  after  that, 
of  course,  the}- — for  he,  too,  would  be  pres- 
ent— would  be  so  good  and  kind  and  patient 
that  they  wouldn't  think  of  quarreling  and 
throwing  things  at  each  other. 

Well,  that  was  out  of  the  question — Stevie 
sighed  heavily — Jesus  was  in  heaven  now, 
and  He  didn't  do  those  miracles  any  more; 
but — ^since  He  had  been  a  Boy  Himself  He 
must  know  just  how  hard  it  was  for  some 
boys — like  Dave  and  himself,  for  instance 
— to  be  good ;  perhaps  He  would  help  them 
if  they  asked  Him.  Stevie  had  his  doubts 
whether  Dave  would  ask ;  he  made  fun  of 
Stevie  whenever  he  said  anything,  of  that 
kind — which  wasn't  often;  but  he  (Stevie) 
could  ask   for  both,  and  particularly   that 


288  The  Children's  Portion. 

Jesus  would  put  it  into  Dave's  heart  to  make 
up  this  quarrel — he  did  .so  hate  to  be  the 
first  to  give  in. 

Then,  all  at  once,  the  eyes  that  were  star- 
ing so  steadily  up  at  the  blue  sky  grew  very 
tender,  and  Stevie's  lips  moved. 

What  he  said  I  do  not  know ;  but  after 
that  he  sprang  up  and  ran  quickly  into 
Dave's  room,  up  to  his  couch.  "Say, 
Dave,"  he  remarked,  in  the  most  off-hand 
way,  **I'll  fix  up  3^our  pillows,  then  you  tell 
me  all  about  that  base-ball  team  you  used 
to  belong  to;  3^011  said  you  would — you 
know,  the  one  that  knocked  spots  out  of 
those  other  fellers. ' ' 

Dave  lay  with  his  head  turned  to  the 
wall,  his  eyes  closed;  but  as  Stevie  spoke 
he  opened  them  and  looked  up,  a  bright 
smile  flashing  over  his  pale  face.  "All 
right,  sir,  I'm  3^our  man,"  he  answered, 
readil3^  "Pick  up  the  things  round  the 
room  first,  so  the  'dragon'  won't  know  we've 
had  a  fight,  and  then  I'll  begin.  And — I 
say,  Stevie — I — I'm  going  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf — sure,  and  the  next  time  I  act  as 
I  did  this  morning  just  hit  me  on  the  head, 
will  you?  I'll  deserve  it."  Which  from 
Dave  was  a  full,  ample,  and  most  honorable 
apology,  and  as  vsuch  Stevie  took  it. 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrence 
returned  home,  much  to  the  satisfaction  and 


Steven  Lawrence^  Amer-ican.      289 

happiness  of  the  children,  who  had,  as  Eva 
said,  "lots  and  lots"  to  tell  them.  Then 
when  the  three  older  folks  were  alone 
together,  Miss  Higginson  told  her  stor}'. 
"I've  watched  'em  close,  and  seen  and 
heard  more  than  those  boys  ever  dreamed  I 
did,"  she  finished  up,  "and  I  say  that  our 
Stevie's  a  hero — though  he  doesn't  know  it. 
What  he's  stood  with  that  Dave  can't  be 
told,  and  never  a  word  of  complaint  out  of 
him.  And,  do  you  know,  I  really  think 
he's  improved  Dave  as  well  as  himself  in 
the  matter  of  temper. ' ' 

"A  Christian  and  an  x\merican,"  Mr. 
Lawrence  said,  with  a  glad  thrill  in  his 
voice,  smiling  over  at  Stevie's  mamma, 
whose  shining  e^^es  smiled  back  at  him. 
"Thank  God,  our  boy  is  rising  to  his 
responsibilities.  But  don't  let  him  know 
he's  done  anything  wonderful,  Hitty." 

"I'll  not  tell  him,  "promised  the  old  house- 
keeper. "But  the  good  Book  tells  us,  'He 
that  ruleth  his  spirit  is  greater  than  he  that 
taketh  a  city;'  and  seeing  that's  so,  Amer- 
ica's got  no  call  to  be  ashamed  of  Stevie, 
for  though  he's  not  an  angel  by  ^.ny  means, 
3^et  in  his  way  he's  a  hero  as  sure  as  was 
ever  George  Washington  or  Paul  Revere, 
or  my  name's  not  Mehitable  Higginson!" 


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